CHRISTMAS WISH LIST

It gets harder every year

No more ties please
or sweaters
I prefer choosing my own fruit
unboxed
Thank you all the same
Same goes for candy
nuts
beverages

My needs are cared for
To conjure up some wants
seems silly and selfish

If I'm not mistaken
gift cards
for peace on earth
are still not available

REALITY CHECK

there is something about
the slop of first winter snow

slush the next morning
the slap dash of cars

ferrying their drivers
to ports of work

that compels reflection
an unwelcome reminder

that beauty is evanescent
every flower fades

each glorious sunset
sinks like a stone

into a sea of darkness
one day's fairy dust

becomes the next day's
sodden slippery slosh
   

EBENEZER SCROOGE, UPDATED

Go ahead. Explain to me how
the story of a child born to
a young woman in a backwater
town two thousand years ago
got transmuted into this orgy
of Black Friday, Cyber Monday,
billion dollar spending spree
to say nothing of obligatory
parties, insipid "Holiday" music
and all the rest of it.

I'm serious. I'd really like
to know, and while you're
at it, tell me why the whole
Santa Claus thing, which
teaches kids that their parents
are big liars, is such a good idea.

Go ahead. Explain.
I'll wait.

HOW TO READ A POEM

Let the poet take you
    by the hand and give
        it a tug, gentle but

firm. Give yourself over.
    Be led. Suspend judgment;
        there will be time enough

later if you want it back.
    When the poet points, look.
        And while you are looking

don't forget to listen. Do not
    use your eyes or your ears.
        The trip will be short one

and may be easily forgotten,
    but not always. The world will not
        be changed. But you might be.
   

THE PLUMBER

He arrives, confident, right on time.
He has tools whose application
I can only guess at. He listens
to my tale of leaking, gurgling
woe. He nods his head, his face
limned with a knowing smile.
My faith in him is boundless.
Surely salvation is at hand.

He begins his work humming.
Two hours later his hums
have ended. I hear him
stomping up the basement stairs.
We've got a real problem here
he says. I think his choice
of pronoun is, at very least,
just a smidge inaccurate.

HANDOUT

The man who stands at the light
at Third and Market holding a sign
that says out of work has been
here every morning for the past

two months. Today I'm the third
car back and this time, for the first
time, I take a dollar bill
and hold it out the window.

The February wind waves it.
He sees and walks quickly toward
me, his tattered coat poor protection
from the cold. He takes it and

wishes me God's blessing. I wonder
why, instead of feeling virtuous
and blessed, I feel embarrassed.
For him, but mostly for me.

TASHA

Mixed Welsh Terrier they told us
at the Humane Society. Which
made us ask ourselves: mixed with
what? Maybe fugitive, we joked.
Open the front door and use your
legs to block her escape or she would
be gone, tearing across the street
as if chased by demons. Trailed,
then reclaimed, she would lick your
hand in gratitude and seem to say
-- well then, what's for supper?
There came the day when she could
not be found. Placards on telephone
poles and trees, ad in the paper,
yielded no response. We hoped
she'd found another family,
one that guarded the front door
with more efficiency than we had.