behind you

Christmas windows like stage sets line my icy walk home as I button up tighter.

I come out like the gritter lorries.
The Santa suits crumpled at the far end of a boarding house clothes rail.
I'm eggnog and a mince pie.

I miss the lights in shops that twinkle like stars through misty mornings. I pass as shoes are dropped and princes piss against bins.

Every year the lines the same. The joke almost, at the end of the pier Christmas show. The once famous. The has beens. And the nearly made its.

Christmas to me, just means work.