Buses don’t run on Christmas in Burlington. If you be here, you be here. If you not be here, you be somewhere else. Odd. You can hear the traffic signals. No outsiders. College kids home. Street people all snuggled up in shelters and motels and camps. No stores open, except for Rite Aid. No restaurants. Gray. Cold. Deserted.
Coudda rolled a bowling ball down Church Street and not hit anything.
Glen. Asked him where he spent the night. “In jail.” “Whad you do?” “Drinkin, but not too bad.”
Nicole. She had her Christmas pants on. Actually, panther pants. But they be red. She sang to herself. Smiled. Hurried off. She always hurries off.
Nobody at Church. Then again, I don’t understand UCC.
Nobody asking for nothing. Sign of somebody who once sat begging.
And a lone tree, undecorated.
