IN THE ARCTIC GARDEN

Tiny snow flakes from the sky
sent to a circle of friends
taking a coffee break
stepping outside their offices
who usually stand outside
hall-awake
to relax their mouthy orifices
sharing in a cathartic fashion
their latest critical passions
near the small rock garden
when not sitting
by their bony cubicles
even during Advent
they have not spent their lips
of the choicest gossip,
here at the water cooler fountain,
by green wreath rows
and padded Christmas trees
which are sent in with holly
by friends of the company
in the Green Mountains
of distant Vermont
here in the dissonant cold air
these foolish bureaucrats refuse
to hear out the street musicians
who play miracle Italian tunes
needing to pay rent or taxes,
or the poet who sings
a St. Francis canticle
on his way to noon mass
barters for warmth and zeal
with the recital of a limerick
always grateful for a left over
of a hot meal on wheels,
in the hallways
or Matt,the tall new guy
from San Diego
dressed in a cowboy suit
who plays the blues
from his newly baptized lips
carries a pawned soprano sax
and lives concealed
silently in the woods
who carries an A.M. radio
and plays a wicked flute solo,
the gossips will not hear
any jolly ring of pealing bells
in the snow flake air
from the Salvation Army
or receive any mail
delivering charities
preferring to vent and nail
their own news
nor will they listen
to the Apostles of the Jews,
preferring any jet flight
good talker
than helping the crippled lady
crossing the street with a walker
here on the corner
of the arctic garden
making sports bets
as if they had a secret formula
to be with the football set
or by keeping a furor going
with their sarcastic bayonets
to play with any golden calf
hiding under a blanket
on the snowy soccer field.