Let me read a poem called "Yuletide."
I lived-- when I first moved to Chicago--
in an area near the lake, and I'd walk my dog at night,
and I'd meet prostitutes who were
walking their dogs at night.
And I got to be friendly with them.
And I remember one time when I told her
I taught at Loyola University, which
was right down the street, she said something
about midnight mass.
And there was an urge--
instant urge but fleeting--
to take her to midnight mass with me.
Except that I thought my colleagues who were always
there might not understand.
So I did write a poem called "Yuletide," and it uses--
the first line of the poem, it's a line
from Philip Booth's book, but it has no meaning as far as that.
No meaning in my poem.
"Yuletide."
"Any available light was reflected in my dog's eyes.
No particular star on that Christmas.
Last year after year when love and trust seemed as simple
as the language of the name she came
to when I called her away from licking the idle hand
of a woman one Christmas.
That night I met a prostitute on the street.
It should have been easy.
I had money, and she said my dog could come up.
But I didn't understand.
The thought of buying her a meal or a goddamn Christmas, tree
believe it or not.
I met a prostitute on the street and wanted her to be an angel.
But I had never seen an angel so Black and beautiful.
All she wanted was my money.
I was so horny and filled with charity.
It should have been so easy.
If I were to create a holiday making up songs
to fill that silent night year after year,
I would make that prostitute its saint.
And money, the gifts of wise men and dumb men far and near.
And if she were to conceive that night--
despite the pills and foam and douches--
a child, I would celebrate abandonment.
A holiday for unknown fathers and all the children
without real names.
I met an angel on the street.
I gave my money for my love.
The stars confused me, led me everywhere.
But I gave my money for my love."