I saw a man take out his Christmas tree Last evening and place it on the street. I wanted to explain to him that we Have nine more days the sounding joy repeat. But just that evening I would see a sticker On a hatchback. "Love everyone," It said. Then, "And don't be a dick." The quote was cited --Jesus. It rang true For me -- a distillation of the great Commandment handed down--that we should do Unto our neighbor works we'd celebrate. I'm glad I kept my mouth shut about the tree And spared him lections in church history. Oh man.
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Our Christmas tree is one of those pre-lit
Numbers that we got on sale, and every year
We calculate how much dough we saved with it.
This December, several rogue bulbs we’re
Officially too tired to seek out extinguished
Themselves and most of their circuit neighbors, leaving
Two thirds of our arbor lucidly distinguished
From the dimmed fraction near the bottom. Retrieving
The culpable bulbs–I’m not seeing that
Happen. We discussed tonight how next year’s tree
Could be a mix of the hangers-on and the fat
Colored lights I loved when I was three.
We watch our Charlie Brownier tree half-shine.
We’ll prize the light we have on our bargain pine.
There are numerous vocal interpretations
Of “The Little Drummer Boy” to choose
From. There are the traditional iterations
Such as Bing’s and the trend-tastic takes that use
Amplified harmoniums with singers
Dressed in neo-colonial garb sporting
Hipster haircuts. Carols about the bringers
Of gifts to the Christ Child and awe-struck reporting
Shepherds proliferate the late-year
Atmosphere. My favorite phrase belongs
To the Rossetti poem set in the midnight clear
Midwinter–the wind chanting holy songs.
Without a drum to play or gift to impart,
The speaker gives the treasure she has–her heart.
There’s a photo of me at about four
Years old. I have a towel on my head
Sitting in front of the Christmas tree, the glor-
ious Christ Child (my Ernie doll) in a bedspread
In my arms. I essayed the role of Mary
With great commitment. In many ways I feel
That she has been near–to imperceptibly carry
Me through some tough shit and bring to heel
Fiery serpents of my own design. One time
I saw her, and when I tried to say thank you
For holding me like an infant, it was like a chime
Quivered, she smiled, turned, and vanished into blue.
I want to follow what I knew by the tree–
To answer an angel voice with let it be.
Dang I miss singing–being inside
A room with dozens of folks breathing deep
And sharing a frequency and word. I tried
Enjoying the many brilliant creations that keep
Appearing on my screen: accomplished performers
Sequestered to Brady Bunch compartments making
Tracks awaiting Garage Band transformers.
But y’all, we know it’s not the same as faking
Your way through music you half-learned, watching
Intently for the conductor who knows you’re making
Up notes on a piece you hope you’re not botching.
I miss those times I took completely for granted.
To harmonize bare-faced–I’d be enchanted.
Today beside the ice cream place I saw
A sturdy toddler oak rooted in
A downspout sediment bed. It stood there raw
And bare with seven brown leaves on spare
Branches like it belonged exactly there.
Because it did. Its size declared, “I’ve
Been here through two summers, and this is where
I plan to keep donating acorns and thrive.
I thought about the oak sapling I got
At graduation and how my Grandma made
Sure it was watered during the dry and hot
Summer when I left home and she stayed.
Grandma prayed for me and guarded that tree–
Her way of hugging me across a sea.
This humble root that sits in a basket on
The microwave waits patiently while sprouting
New life. How long has it been dug and gone
From its cozy burrow? Was it shouting
With all the other spuds being displaced
Forcibly from their dirt-bound domicile,
Saying, “No! We don’t even taste
Good without ample salt and a pile
Of butter!” These are the hypothetical scenes
I dream up as I run the peeler across
Old-eyed taters wondering what it means
That I anthropomorphize a tuber’s home loss.
This soup, though, should taste yummy, I think.
There’s salt, garlic, cream, and wine to drink.
God, grant me the serenity to give
Over the fake ID I have with your
Name and birthday (December twenty-five
Duh) dodgily printed beneath a poor
Photographic representation resembling
My likeness. I’m finding the bouncers guardianing the door
To the control room aren’t trembling
When I present my credentials. I think I bore
Them now with my insistance about the kind-
Of-a-big-deal I am. The other night
One of them just waved me in. “Go find
Yourself,” he said. “Just get out of my sight.”
Those guys are so vain. I mean, anyone can see.
They probably think this poem is about me.
A dry and warm house is a huge deal.
I think about when I learned the basic needs
In school–water, food, shelter. To feel
Accepted–that was a biggie. A person succeeds
Because she works hard, right? With the right
Amount of gumption and elbow grease, she
Can pull her bootstraps and weight, fight
Off any hardship here in the land of no free
Lunches (no such thing). Come January One
I’m reading renters with no cash or jobs
Will see their beds, clothes, and photos done
The service of a sidewalk escort and unturnable doorknobs.
Please tell me how in the place we find each other
We who could help say, “Am I keeper of my brother?”
My son confirms my penchant for perfection
Must be a genetic contribution to my
Psyche since when I finally ceded protection
Of the squeezy paint bottle for him to try
To fill in the snowman’s face with white, he quickly
Grew upset when the small triangle meant
For the carrot nose blanched pale and sickly
Beneath some out-of-bounds tint. I went
To the kitchen for a paper towel assuring
My two-year-old emotion replica all
Would be well–remembeing repeated bouts during
Piano lessons wanting to quit and bawl.
Leonard Cohen wrote about the un-win,
The cracked everything, how the light gets in.
