Poetry: Artificially Friendly

We drive over a hill and find ourselves
face to face with the night
of a thousand multi-colored eyes
staring back at us,
the Christmas lights illuminating
the suburb below.
 
We drive through, exploring
them, exploring
ourselves, exploring
the unique joy, the happy story
each pretends to tell
to the passersby in the dark green Dakota.
 
Each bulb speaks,
silently but unrelenting
as the rays of light that each casts away.
Each bulb whispers its partial meaning
like a shy, rainbow-colored flower
that only blooms at night.
 
We in the truck crack jokes we shouldn’t,
we in the truck share stories we shouldn’t,
because we are drunk. Except I.
I am sober. Silent. Determined to listen
through the whispered lies the lights try to tell us
into the deeper meaning of the truth they don’t.
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