Save for me the Christmas shift. Let diggers, tricked into thinking that they've finished the last ditch, salute a not unusual commute, hold the pose and hope to seize up in the cold.
A little like the night you finally threw rocks at that buzzing streetlight until it stopped, but all the silence meant was bedtime went from wrestling with, to nestling between, your demons, and watching out of season festive special reruns.
Save for me the Christmas shift. Let the wildlife confined to the emblems behind front desks of rearing buildings come to life, roam corridors like nobody must need these anymore, and claw at frosting on the doors.
How distant blasts of brass stir something in the equaliser lights of misted transom glass, if this diorama's spied the side that it's designed. Extinguished advent candle wax's burning purpose must be this – this wish...