The ancient evening is distempered
by a brutal wash of luminescence
that is Route 17 during Christmas
—a highway and a holiday well-matched,
a place and time profitably bound
up in a storm of white light and commerce:
Tool Town, Bennigan’s, Filene’s
Basement. December’s overhead
split by Boeing 747s
headed for Newark, I could hardly hear
the frantic conversation in my ear
as we sat in traffic under ten
Santas on top of a Plymouth dealer’s
roof, their big hands turned up to heaven.



A Message from the Editors

Since 1982, The New Criterion has nurtured and safeguarded our delicate cultural inheritance. Join our family of supporters and secure the future of civilization.

This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 23 Number 4, on page 39
Copyright © 2022 The New Criterion |