The lights are strung, the tree is up – and still,
The hollowness and barrenness have grown;
With all of this to ward the winter chill,
Then why does he feel empty and alone?
The mirror in the other room would say
There is no corporal majesty to see,
And gentle night can’t alter brutal day,
Nor integrate the contradictory.
He looks for love, a number he has lost,
Amid the plastic lights and fading bars,
And knows the price, the amplitude, the cost
Of looking down, and missing out the stars.
Then why, indeed, does he still long and crave
When there’s no Who in Who-ville left to save?