the most good
There’s a tavern down the road and when the door opens I can hear Sinatra singing, Have yourself a merry little Christmas. Let your heart be light. People inside are talking and laughing a bit too loud—tavern volume. Down the other end of the street, some poor bastard is bundled up against the northwest wind, standing by a red pot and ringing a bell, cadging spare change for folks who’ll be eating and sleeping at the Sally tonight.
The tavern is bright and cheery and warm, full of people who are happy—at least for a time. Sinatra’s in the tavern, telling me Next year all our troubles will be out of sight, and I want to believe him. He’s never lied to me before. But that damned bell is so insistent. It’s dark down that other end of the street, dark and lonely and offering nothing but a bowl of warm, tasteless stew and an uncomfortable cot with a thin blanket in a room full of strangers.
If I had money in my pocket, I know which way I’d be going. But I don’t. I got eight bucks and change, and I’m cold and hungry. Over my shoulder the tavern door opens and I hear Hang a shining star upon the highest bough. And have yourself a merry little Christmas now. I drop the change in the bucket.
Sinatra can kiss my ass.
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