Ding Dong Merrily Don'T Cry Poem by Martin O'Neill

Mothers hurry their children away from the
ice-wild hidden-wind blades
and the passing taxis avert their gaze
from the stragglers at the neon foreshore.
Shop windows are crying crocodile tears
as downtown a siren bays the billboard moon.
Hunchbacked clouds muscle November
outta the Goddam way as
rain stitches hair to wet cheeks,
burns like cinders, deep down below-the collar-cold.
The footpath is harder tonight.
Eyes narrow against the glare of the
uncaring polychromatic seasonal sentiment and noise.
An extra white cider shield keeps the memories
at bay for another night along with the cardboard.
Crack a tube of lighter fluid, what the hell, Christmas
doesn't come round every week, does it?