Poem: A Loosely Wrapped Miracle.

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You handed me the makings of a miracle
it smelled of old money, mingled with tacky sweat:
of remittance,
of immigrant labour.
You awaited my gasp of awe,
with the silence of boxing day
that absence of noise
when you put aside the presents
and listen to love sprinkling beneath the
rustle of wrapping paper.
My smile was a child’s innocence that never leaves the room,
That patient siege of faultless patience;
You knew I’d been waiting, I’d been a good boy.
You knew my every appreciative word would be
lathered by mirth
and haloed by honey accents
You knew that the miracle you handed me wasn’t love;
the miracle was a burning bush—
a means to receive reverence,
a heart to be loved.

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2 thoughts on “Poem: A Loosely Wrapped Miracle.

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