Scrapes and scuttles above my bed
but beneath the record player crooning
carols for the sliders and shufflers
to grate and whoosh to-
Do tree and garland rise in the upstairs room?
Or does the furniture scoot to perfect
And that, for feet to twirl and sway-
for the first or hundredth time?
With arms open as wide as the hearts
centered at their core,
joining the jingles
to which I match my rhyme-
These neighbors on whom to speculate,
with whom to entwine,
deep inside the music
that weaves through the night.