When the wrapping paper flares
in freakish red and blue flames
and its ash rises on its own heat
up the blackened chimney flue;
When the ornaments and lights
seem tired and longing for the attic
or basement where they can rest
until someone feels excited about them again;
When the gingerbread houses
have been stripped of all the good stuff
their icing is rock-hard and
they are left as offerings to the squirrels;
When tannenbaums poke out pathetic branches
half buried in the snowplow’s berm
half torn by the snowplow’s blade
waiting for Removal Day, whenever that is;
When you are tired of the metaphors
of red and green and music of bells
and your poetic mind can’t bring itself
to write twelve stanzas for contrast;
Christmas is over.
Christmas is over.
