Santa in the seedy suit,
shakes the Salvation Army cup,
leers at me through yellow teeth.
Songbooks mold in cold cellars,
while would've-been carolers
hunt wide screen TVs and
Wonder bras in hopes
they'll get lucky Christmas morn.
Come, my sweet.
Lead me home to graveyards
filled with poinsiettiaed remembrances
to ones we have loved, who no longer
can rise to teach praise on this day.
Published in The Dead Mule December 2008
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