Christmas calls
my commuter mug
of tea shivers with anticipation
or is that laughter since I only commute
from the kitchen to my desk
No matter, it can laugh all it wants
here for a limited time only
the perfect revenge

Christmas calls
as I round the corner and
the tree comes into view
tall, majestic, covered with
too many ornaments, say my children
now adults, who think I care
about their judgment of me
in matters such as these
and consider it payback for those teenage years
and, by the way, those Christmas cookies, people?
unbeknownst to you, they will be gluten and dairy free
any more crap and they will be paleo, too

Christmas calls
as I wince at the pulsing
color-changing lights we thought
were a good idea
after admiring their marquis-like scroll
across a house down the road
too big for a tree, really
but I didn’t want to suffocate
my husband’s rare spike
of pure joy over 7 hours of preparation
for the epileptic-banned remote-controlled light show

Merry Christmas, darling.

Christmas calls
as leftover ornaments, the boxes they came from
and wreaths still in their cases stacked to my hip
litter the room all the way to the fireplace
where the oak mantle
holds out the creche
the nativity set
pieces thoughtfully arranged
with love
angels suspended
star of Bethlehem above
waiting for Jesus to come.

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