We finished our breakfasts.
Christmas Eve in the house of The Queen.
Everyone ate in silence. Eyes down. Breath held.
The weight of the year sitting on everyone’s shoulders.
It’s Christmas Eve, the time for prediction is beginning.
Some study astrological charts. Others look over weather reports.
Calamity drinks her mimosa and sparks.
The animals are beginning to speak out. At midnight they will tell words of death and other omens.
And there was no light.
Someone is mapping out the auroras.
They clear our plates and wipe down the tables.
As I put my coat on they reset the tables and refill the plates.
I wipe my chair down with a white cloth and fill my glass with another mimosa.
It’s Christmas Eve, for those of us here, and for those of us gone.