At the Markets
It has come to the markets
despite decades of global warmth.
Warmth is the joy that is brought
to you, to others
gripped between holiday stalls
too close for comfort, but willingly so.
Hot wine is drunken and spilled,
spirits laughing at cold noses and rosy cheeks.
Lights glow on faces bright like the sun,
despite the night.
A deposit is made for another glass,
it’s a give-and-take occasion
for a chance to stay until it’s lights out,
under scarves and mittens
with black linen cradling cheeks
like a baby, soft kisses on forehead,
gentle like marshmallows before roasted alive…
…’tis the season to burn
Under the touch, under the mistletoe
hot breath licking you like flames
in drunken rhapsody.
— The Finicky Cynic
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