Manikin de Vin

They're all lined up under the lights, Christmas tinsel

stuffing their mouths. And now a cloud hides behind that hill,

arguing about philosophy. In the distance, a murmur,

perhaps below ground: yes, it comes from the tunnels

filling up with commuters commuting, no one knows why

on this day given to festivities. The French, they say,

have a word for it, something to do with eating

in the open air, and now they spit the tinsel out. Hesitating,

"I had meant to write," he wrote-too late,

the intended recipient has dropped off the twig

into the South Pacific, still he writes on:

"The days seem endless here . . ." Lucky fellow,

his future written out on the little label

on the back of a bottle of claret: you will live

forever, says the manikin in the sketch,

but none of your wishes will ever come true.