his lunch tray
half eaten
set out
to one side
and Oma’s name removed
routinely from the other
greets us with roger whittaker’s
o come all ye faithful
in decibels that defy

determined to belong
we push into his loneliness
setting free a blast of
o this happy morning

silhouetted against the frowns of winter
surrounded by the smiling frames of progeny
he turns
great gray head
but not seeing
but not hearing
but not moving

the boys brush past
in parkas, boots and all
erasing the question on his face

with almost a century of motion
he rocks forward to receive
their practiced merry Christmases