A Little Poem
Almost time for pudding,
Almost time for cheese
Almost time to criticize
The way I stomp my feet.
Almost time to take a break
Almost time to scream
All these things come rolling in
The countdown starts at three.
Busy fingers lifting,
Christmas music playing
Along with that goes my mind
It is slowly decaying.
Gifts to buy and rifts to cross
Taken step by step
Odes to speak and love to keep
Avoiding the inept.
Gallavanting ’round a tree
Presents neatly stacked
Greedy eyes burn to know
In each, what has been packed.
Fire burns and wine is flowing
Voices carry far
Children hide from jovial laughter
Someone grabs a guitar.
Raining feathers from the clouds,
Some may call that snow
Windows closed and knives are drawn
Time to cut the roast.
All are here and all are smiling
Faces stuffed with food
Crumbs falling, bellies bulging
Picking up the mood.
Children are sent to their beds
Adults awake to plot
How to get the hidden gifts
Without getting caught.
Daddy snores upon the couch
The dogs they join with him
Somewhere in the basement
Mommy’s hands filled to the brim.
Morning cracks the night
Mom n pop asleep
Kids awake to find their gifts
And open them without a peep.
And what do they find
In their festive red stockings?
Not what they expected
So they sit there gawking.
Bundles of black
Dirty and stinky
Coal fills the stockings
And they weep in their nankies.
Mom and dad smile
Not because they are cruel
But because they know better
Because they are cool.
For waiting downstairs
Lay the real surprise
If the kids would grow up
And wipe dry their eyes.
“Be quiet you kids,
I’m trying to sleep.”
Says daddy when he hears
The children weep.
“But daddy it’s Santa,
He’s left us some coal.
I knew I should have stopped
When my belly was full.
I ate one of his cookies
That’s got to be it
But I did him a favor,
For he’s fat as a blimp.”
“Or perhaps it’s your fault,”
Says Dad with a grin
“Making it your job
To turn Santa thin.”
He turns the other way
And in seconds he’s snoring
But the kids are now curious
This can’t be Christmas morning.
“Are we dreaming?”
They ask, now starting to see
What they had not noticed before
Under the Christmas tree.
They look at each other
Suppressing a scream
Maybe this “Santa”
Isn’t so mean.
Wanting to run over
They go back to their rooms
And wait there patiently
With the smell of coal fumes.
When the parents get up
The kids will go wild
Finding new things
Only cool to a child.
They will laugh and they’ll play
There will be much to tell
Deception’s been played
And played very well.
