Steve McQueen, bringer of Christmas

The headlights hit him
like he had just emerged from a tunnel
in a prisoner of war camp
wearing the clothes they captured him in,
unshaven and muddy.

Nazis with guns
standing on lookout turrets
helmets shining in a wolverine
moon, speaking in
harsh tones.

He thought of Steve McQueen
as the cooler king
and Charles Bronson pulling himself
underground on a trolley
a vaulting horse hiding Allied secrets.

And the game given away
on a train platform
in a clipped British accent

It all reminded him of Christmas
the crack of nuts, the
smell of dates, the
Queens speech and the
contented feeling of a bloated stomach

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