Our function largely symbolic:
one at the foot of the manger,
woolly and cute,
one draped over a shepherd’s shoulder,
as in stained glass of the sentimental sort.
When hurt or lost or hungry or afraid
we cry, like you.
In our midst the holy baby
holds out his precocious arms
and we don’t know, don’t care,
our only novelty the sheltering cave,
a mouthful of scented preposterous hay.