Why lies He in such mean estate where ox and ass are feeding?
Because that's where we are.
Short pig tails in disarray she squatted in the forlorn corner between the rusty dumpster and the stained concrete wall. Eyes big with water from the cold she glanced up from the grubbiest teddy bear the world has ever known and threw the box cutter blade she had in her tiny caked with grime hand into the gutter splashed with frozen what may have been leftovers what may have been vomit. Her grin was big enough to turn her eyes into slits and the liquid snot trails from her nose wound their way down her face and would hardly prevent her from later bursting into endless sing songs. At least she had on a jacket this time.
The bus was crowded but not suffocatingly so and in the, somehow still clean, orange plastic seat sat a grandmother, a matted dog, and a small girl. The grandmother muttered and juggled her cares on her lap while the dog squirmed throwing dust and curly black hairs like confetti all over. The small girl, so bundled up with clothes that only her dark eyes were visible, squirmed too, now playing with the dog, now to get the attention of the foreigner. The tiny pile of clothes with dark eyes drew the foreigner down to her height despite the crowded bus with a stare that may well have been a net and then declared through too many clothes You are beautiful. No, was the reply, not me, but YOU are beautiful. The pile of clothes coughed, and grabbed the foreigner for a hug that made even the dog still for a moment.
The soft serve ice cream with blueberry syrup on top experience of delight was hampered only by the imminent fear of splinters from the wooden spoon that appeared as if it were hewn from a piece of drift wood. Carefully being the only reasonable way to eat with it. A pane of smudged glass was all that separated the street from the booth. And all that separated the foreigner enjoying her splintery ice cream from the man with ragged dusty pants and fingernails thick with crust enjoying watching her. His thin jacket hung loosely on his thin frame and his disheveled hair was not long enough to cover raised eyebrows above eyes wide with wonder. On the street behind him nomads with butter slick boots and braids nudged past bags of frozen meat toted on the backs of scruffy boys and small bug eyed dogs trotted along to the sound of their bells. He stood and stared. The foreigner waved. His face cracked into a grin betraying tea stained teeth and he backed away from the window to make room for others who wanted a peek.
What child is this?
The very One who came for such mean estate and indeed is here, right where we are, garbage, dogs, creepy men and all.
