That Time Of Year That You See Everywhere When It’s That Time Of Year…

I hear carol singers in two cities.
Their accents makes no difference,
I still walk past their collection bucket
and pretend I am on the phone.
There is an Urban Outfitters on both
high streets, teaming with teens,
who try to sell me the same clothes,
same books, with hellos and smiles.
I don’t fit in here. The countryside
motion blurs as the coach chews
the motorway, no one appreciates
the view with words, all dead in
their lack of sleep or iPods spinning
Christmas songs. I try to love
what I see with my scribbling,
but a swerve makes me drop my pen,
and despite all the down hills, it doesn’t
roll back to me. I hope someone is writing
lyrics with it now, as I sit in stations
who give me music therapy. Apparently,
‘all I want for Christmas is you,’ but I
feel I should be able to write a better song.