Childhood Christmas

Circa - approximately early
to late nineteen sixties,
where yours truly
found himself surly,
particularly compounded
if my parents,

where Mister and
Missus Santa Claus
played by Boyce and
Harriet Harris respectively

failed to purchase
for this sole son,
thee latest trendy
toy, sans whirly
gig, gizmo, or
fuzzy electric doohickey,
BUT NOTHING girly.

Translation: Inxs of
severe (incurable) envy
infected Matthew Scott
most pronounced, asper
quantity of presents,

the gratitude receiving gifts
meant diddly squat
if I counted less goodies,
than either eldest,
and/or youngest sister got.

This rancor kept
under (ahem) wraps
though ironically, either
sibling oohed and ahed
over some fancy shmancy
garment with snaps,

which this lad
feigned ambivalence,
indifference, or
repugnance toward getup
for young chaps.

No sooner did the
last, (and usually
biggest) boxed surprise
found these then kiddie
fingers tearing into,
when thine irritating
nasal voice didst rise

above the melee "That's all,"
or some variation
on said theme blurted out
as "FAKE" real lies
already, eagerly, and impatiently
anticipating same holiday
three hundred and sixty

five days, hence unaware
how fast "time flies"
now this soon to be newly
minted sexagenarian eyes,
those memories of innocent
naiveté, and bliss

with sentimental nostalgia
(envision: slight moisture
around tear ducts), and
aye close this poem
with reminiscence dabbed
with tissue sadness dries.