I stand at the border of two streets.
One, a bleak reminder of dearth,
the other an interval of comfort.
A young girl warms her knuckles,
the brief kindling of a premature flame,
illuminating a comet in her eyes,
as apartment block carollers permeate,
the low hum of privileged rejoicing.

The street reigns quietly.
As if to lull, the stinging disparity
of pennies and breadcrumbs,
as a stray cat roams past, carefree
its tail pointing to neither end
of the street, but up to the sky,
where extinct streets
and forsaken hamlets commune
in the stairways of equity.

Tomorrow is Christmas Day.