Monday, May 16, 2011

December 1, 1995

It’s a few weeks to Christmas.
I peek into my little red stocking
And see a lonely lump of coal.

Surely, Santa didn’t give me this.
He’s busy double-checking his lists;
The sleigh’s still in the shop. No, no――

I think I know these prints, these
Black smudges soiling my sock.
See, Santa never leaves a trace;

Even when he dishes coal,
He does so with a silent grace
Not this appalling ruckus.

It appears I received this ugly stone
As a going-away presentand yet
I had only arrived not long ago.

My holiday will not be happy;
Before long I may cease to believe
That reindeer know how to fly.

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