his
lunch tray
half eaten
set
out
to
one side
and
Oma’s name removed
routinely from the other
greets us with roger whittaker’s
o
come all ye faithful
in
decibels that defy
yet
unannounced
determined to belong
we
push into his loneliness
setting free a blast of
o
this happy morning
silhouetted against the frowns of winter
surrounded by the smiling frames of progeny
he
turns
great gray head
looking
but
not seeing
listening
but
not hearing
beckoning
but
not moving
the
boys brush past
in
parkas, boots and all
erasing the question on his face
with almost a century of motion
he
rocks forward to receive
their practiced merry Christmases