Next Morning

A contemplation on the possible indifference of the crowds in Bethlehem the night Jesus was born led to this invitation to imagine the scene.

The Next Morning 

Mild morning light

Sifts through the windows of the inn,

Where blear-eyed travelers

Shake out slept-in cloaks

And comment on the scarcity of

fodder, and of comfort, 

and of bread, in Bethlehem.

One yawns out "Did anyone else

Hear singing in the night?"

"Nah, I sleep anywhere, most

like a rock," one says.

"People coming, going, all night,"

groans another, "hardly slept a wink - and no denying there are fleas in here."

"These crowds," growls one whose gray-striped turban smells of fish - "I'm out

to get in line first thing at these *___* registration booths -

Old Caesar never had to make his living from the sea -

I hope that red-haired boy

gave water to my donkey - here you!

Where'd you put him?"

"In the stable," calls a red-fringed silhouette of head

thrust through the morning door,

one second's shadow on the dust-thick floor.

"Here, you!" - again the sea-stained gentleman - but no response.

"I'll have to fetch the beast myself."

Down two turns of the sun-streaked stairs,

The dark door of the stable

Rustles with the restlessness of rising animals.

Eyes new-adjusting to the dimness, 

Old Jonah sees a small white shape 

Amidst the remnants of the last night's hay.

"I'll be -" he mutters, noticing the woman, and the man, nearby, asleep.

He turns away, embarrassed,

Looking for his donkey,

"This government - 

Come on, you slow of bones" - 

this to the donkey, gazing back, ears pricking toward the manger, nostrils twitched -

"Time we're gone".

Their shadows fill the door

One second more.

Then Mary wakes

To see the square of sunlight on the hay-strewn floor,

And hears with sudden leap of weary heart,

The whimpering in the manger.

-AFB, 12-25-23