All I want for Christmas is a gun,
just like little Ralphie, except real.
Armor-piercing bullets would be fun,
and a barrel made of polished steel.
Santa, bring me ammo clips,
body targets, liquor nips.
Arm me for a firefight.
A silencer would be all right.
Shoulder holster would be cool.
Rapid fire killing tool.
I’ll get a license, keep it legal,
swear upon the U.S. eagle.
And I’ll only use it to defend.
I’ll never kill a relative or friend.
N & I had an ice orchestrated tandem fall
as we walked uphill to the car this icy morning.
I’d scraped the hard-ice film off of the car,
but didn’t realize how slippery the ground remained.
Leading N uphill, hand-in-hand, she went down first
and took me with her after a moment’s hesitation
(when I thought I could pull it all back together).
So there we were, on the ice, on our knees,
she, amazingly, unhurt, just downed.
And I tried to readjust, but now I was tractionless in my flip-flops,
she, remarkably, calm, and we orchestrated a ten minute rescue
which, eventually, ended with me pulling her in on a door mat like a sled,
and her crawling into the porch. Where she sat for another ten minutes
laughing and extremely grateful she was not further hurt.
So her breakfast/shopping trip with godmother Anne was cancelled
and we bruised took pain relievers and went to bed.
Awoke both in good spirits (we had high-fived upon arriving indoors)
and have spent the day with cuddling cats and stored-up food.
I’ll venture out tomorrow, in better weather, for food and grog.
N, whose end was some last minute shopping, said,
when down on the ground, "anyone not covered will get checks. "
God bless you, Tiny Tim. God bless you Queen Victoria (in secret).
Happy holiday to you and yours (and any spirits not covered in this message)!
Whose dusty boots are those,
standing at attention
in the car stripped of its plumage
near the desecrated rag?
The ground, so hard in the winter sun,
a pellet in the soft heart
of a warm-breathing deer,
masks death with a facade of glory,
and a worm, frozen to the wood
of an old tree’s casket,
falls without a sound as tribute.
Hubless tires, like so many
travelled eyes among shapes
in this graveyard above the brookpond,
stare at the sky, unspinning,
perhaps forever; and, in their shadow
a stalwart weed pokes its tongue
through the jagged mouth of a rusted can,
mocking the symbiotic plan.
Below, the water, robbed of beauty,
mirroring the hillside’s desolation,
drains drip by drip and drip back toward the heart.
On the last day of October,
I caught the water lilies crying.
Not too long thereafter came the ice.
Checking their watches by the radium glow,
three dogs salivate same time each night.
Pavlov rings them up with news.
Pound is down. Old bones in Sahara found.
Ears perk. Tails wag. Notes are taken,
lab coats washed and dried. "We tried,"
say the working hounds, knowing humans
respond well to their deliberate behavior.
"But our mouths are dry," they growl,
and ring the bell for water.
My mother’s ebony chopsticks are not in storage.
My George Mikan doll is in storage.
My little basketball plaything that was so complete,
Even to the elastic strap on his teeny safety glasses.
I used to chuck George across the den to my dog, Pan,
Who always licked at Uncle Ed’s shoes.
Uncle Ed had cordovans coated glassy with doggie saliva.
He’d smoke Camels without polish and sit awake
All night hollering, "Bring back Fred Allen!"
Mother loved Uncle Ed like a brother.
She used to say, "If my ebony chopsticks were not
In storage, we could have a real oriental fling."
Uncle Ed was busy picking smoke scraps off his tongue.
Pan knew the score. He saw me kissing
That long-legged doll in the bathroom mirror.
My mother’s ebony chopsticks are not in storage.
No more than my father’s ashes are in that rusty urn
On the mantle near the plaid stamps and the cuff links.