July 10, 2009

I am sitting in my
father’s chair, beside
an orange fire in
the early hours of
Christmas day.

The stockings are
a slow cascade
down the wooden
bannister. The trees

with their little glowing
fruit, hold Dollar Tree
ornaments and shield
unwrapped presents
from an indoor rain.

My older brothers are
beside me arguing about
global warming and unregulated
population, and somehow

the gumdrops that
would have danced some
20 years ago in my
childhood head must
tonight, be sorely unsatisfied.

Their gummy selves
stretched out on candy
couches, significantly
depressed by my brothers’
directionless diatribes.

The candy canes,
bundled like barber shop tinder,
another Christmas faggot
waiting to be burned.