A Vancouver Christmas Story

I smelt a Christmas party

half-a-block away--mouthwash

carried on a shivering breeze.

Security guards looked uneasy

beside the doors of a mall

in the midst of a late close.

Displays dimmed in quick secession,

mannequins in formal wear were left

standing in the dark.

On the corner the party raged.

Two silhouettes sat still

backs against the light,

black lumps traced 

by white fluorescence,

with an orange highlight.

One liter of Listerine

Original--26 percent 

alcohol. Half-finished.

The light tinted in mouthwash:

a stained glass portrait,

like a scene from my bible:

a slurred nativity. I walked 

slower past the revelers.

ears perked to listen to

an unintelligible conversation

in angry tones. The two shared

gulps of the season's cocktail.

Remnants of the old neighborhood

creep out into the bright part of Vancouver

at awkward times--cold snaps

near Christmas, when people are

supposed to care about the poor,

remember the old story

of a couple pushed out,

who found no where to sleep.

And the uncouth foul-mouthed

Shepherds watching their flocks

half-drunk and stinking, abandoning

their posts and hastening to the city.

The last shoppers wandered by

under high-rises of million dollar condos

hemming in the old neighborhood

of a city trying everything

to hide an embarrassment,

or push it back to the periphery. 

The Christmas party did not have long,

security spotted the couple and 

hastened from their post to end it.

I watched a moment, then left

with a Christmas song

humming in my head.