Night Divine

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.

Pris Campbell

Published in The Dead Mule  December 2008

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