january seven, any year

january seven, any year
a poem by troy cady

i am the man living
in the town
right next to bethlehem.

i missed epiphany yesterday.

i have a feeble imagination.
i have no roast lamb;
i have no gold
(and, even if i did, i’m not sure i would share it,
truthbetold).

i missed epiphany
because no angel came
announcing good news of great joy;
no star appeared
in my night sky
to lead the way
because where i live
there are too many cloudfilled nights.
like the netherlands, there’s always a little rain everyday.

i am the man who,
when believing,
wishes he could disbelieve.
though faith is supposed to be
my profession,
i secretly want to
deny miracles;
life would be easier
if there were no virgin births.

and i am neither low nor high,
neither shepherd nor magician,
just somewhere here in the middle,
an unremarked common sinner.

i am just like Everyone Else here
in the Town right next to bethlehem,
and i think Everyone Else is just like me,
with stuffed closets in an orderly house
and a respectable job
that makes me neither wealthy nor poor,
just an unremarked common sinner.

i am the man
who secretly leers
and most people never know it,
would never think it.

i keep many things i don’t need
and shouldn’t have.

i am also the man who doesn’t make it into the narrative.
the editor cut me up or out.

but i am the man,
who’s hoping
(just like Everyone Else)
it’s never too late
to pay my respects
and just bring
a simple greeting,
though unremarked.

……………………………………………………….

It is time to do a few loads of stale laundry
and clean out the front closet.

It is time to place a clearer picture of our laughing children
in our largest frame.

It is time to hang the Canadian flag outside
and our nameplate over the door,
though it has taken us three point seven years to do it
and we are beginning to pack boxes again.

Still, January seven of any year
is a good day to finally have an epiphany.

……………………………………………………………………….

Maybe we’ll have another four decades to live,
who knows.
If so, I’ll be eighty
and our kids will be in their fifties.

I wonder how we’ll celebrate Jubilee that year?
We’ll be elderly, but I’m guessing that we’ll still be able to laugh like carni folk.
We’ll move into the city on purpose that year to breathe air that can be seen.
I’ll take your hand and ask to dance the "Mess Around” with you.
Or maybe I’ll just start playing the song and joy will take its natural course.
Either way, I think I’d like Ray Charles to dignify our Jubilee
forty years from now.
We’ll drink a bottle of Sangre de Toro, too.
That’ll be just the thing.

Then we shall have a nap.

…………………………………………………….

And we’ll still be common sinners.
Ragamuffins.

And we’ll still be a day late,
remembering that we forgot
to pay our respects to you.

And you’ll still be just a child,
eternally a babe wrapped in swaddling cloths,
unassuming,
not holding any grudges
(not even feeling them in the first place),
forever forgiving,
accepting anyone and everyone
(even troublemakers like us),
granting innocence and joy by osmosis,
fresh starts from faith,
because you are foreverchild.

And in the new Jubilee we shall come
to your cradle
playing Ray Charles,
not too serious this time,
laughing and poor,
finally poor,
finally remarked and regarded.

January seven, any year, is underrated.
There is still a morning
and you still have eyes and ears
and time and eternity
and a smile that’s wider than our largest picture frame
and a name, though no plate.

But I still have poor me.
And there is poor You.
Subject and object of my poor love.
Put your fingerprint on me.
Get me dirty, child.
January seven, any year, is underrated.