The ceremony does not begin until
We hear the silent splattering of the
Snowflakes upon the shuttered mildewed
Windows lined under the haggard trees—
And by then,
The Mary Tyler Moore Show must have
Ended as fast as it had begun —
Behind the faces of muted clocks that
Tick and drop frozen nuts on the carapaces of
Slow-protesting tortoises on broad-day-light
Streets.
Until then . . .
Pray, let us read to ourselves, and until bedtime —
Bowdlerised apologues and biographies of
Saints hastily written.