A Sunday in December



A Sunday in December



Pallets wait at the steepled church;

The church looms silently all week.


The wind keens, and the branches yields

Their leaves.  They flit, crash, and

roll on the polluted ground.


Fagged movers haul old refrigerators,

Unhinged doors taped, no longer

Cold like the day, up to the faulty lorry. 

They heave short winter breaths. 


And a weary icy monger in a

White Panama hat, red short-sleeved polo,

Blue jeans, and bright Air max sneakers

knells his rusty bell thrice. It rings

like the church bells once at 3 pm.


He limps down the car-rimmed street,

hunched over his rickety cart,

One wheel bent and stagnant.


But, no one, no one greets his hallow calls.



Bolivar T. Cacares



Bolivar T. Caceres is a New York City artist who writes poetry and fiction. He is the author of the chapbook Outside my Garret Window. It is available on AmazonHe writes for and edits the film blog, Film Studies 401, which analyzes a classic film every month. His poem, Rain in the Streets, appears on ShortEdition. Connect with him on social media @BolivarTCaceres.

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