“Christmas Bob taught me the meaning
of the fucking holiday, sober thirty three years,
died sober too, bless his soul,
and he said Santa was a rude drunk, mean too,
and Christmas Eve was his living amends list come alive,
slipping down chimneys like the old burglar
he was in his youth. Amends, amends, amends, bell-like,
his voice on thunder roll as he stuffed himself
between doors of a house to leave a sober beginning.
Of course, Christmas Bob only told his own stories,
I didn’t know that for a few years, till he died, and his wife
sidled up to me, running a pant, eager for wine,
I could tell she keyed right into my high energy,
well she told me Bob came round every holiday
with food falling out of the dishes, so rich they were,
buttered, and honeyed, and frosted with almonds.
Money bags, gifter, merrymaker, names he did not know
as a drunken down jewel thief. He knew so little
then, she explained, but died so enlarged and aged
it was miracles, miracles, miracles all over the place.”
