MIDNIGHT MASS

I went to the Cathedral
half hoping for a Damascus Road flash.
All I found was a graceless barnyard space,
pressed full; a sweaty, heaving mass;
no baby to be found there.

The incense was a rich nostalgic lick:
sweet nothing like the tale end of dreams.
The carols were a playlist
put together to impress
some carol loathing musical sophisticate.

At least they had We Three Kings on the list.
I sang until my ghostly tonsils ached;
there was joy in that, and my partner's casual touch,
but nothing else.
We left before the Eucharistic prayer
and drank the fresh air outside the church.