Cuts a lonely figure against that hulk of a tree,
heel of his hand nursing the phone.
Face plaited with trouble,
he looks to the rubbish on the ground
where people have tried to pitch it into the branches
as though it means something – like those boots you see hanging from power lines.
He looks past me into the next minute,
as though he wants to launch himself into next year –
anywhere but here, this minute, this day, this week.