Salvation Army


A solitary bell repetitively clangs
outside the superstore’s automatic doors.

Standing stoically, a bored Santa,
skinny and beardless,
seems oblivious
to the endless salvo of the repeated tone.

The red kettle, slick with settled moisture,
collects compassion coins
from the fortunate
eager to hurry inside and spread comfort,
out of necessity,
on the unnecessary.

About justbrinkley

poetry, flash fiction, prompts from a southern granny who should have been a writer.
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