Christmas Courtesy

A sin that did impart more pain than a homicide.
Or at least I hope it did as much, mother dear,
To beat the bruised brittle bones and cement sack heart
Of a frail, empty old woman.
And thats why I sent the card, ma’am, for revenge!
Complete with “Season’s greetings” elegantly scrawled at the top,
To remind of the merriment this time of year never had for you—
Because you were never there to have it.

And my face, do you recognize it? Perhaps maybe
Just the twinkle in my eye, frozen in a foxy sneer,
Draws you back, and you know it’s me—
Fifteen years older in this picture,
Lovely as a solomon flower. As you wish you still were.
And sigh, you are reminded that cosmetics grow weary
To reverse the time now.
And the copper young man holding my hand?
Handsome fellow, yes? Yet you know not
His name, only that his is now mine in ownership.

No one invited you to the wedding...well…
What is the difference between a wedding and a soccer game?
But those never were ranked high on your totem pole of priorities.
But it doesn't matter now—none of that — just the card
The most spiteful of things
Bladed like the reaper scythe to separate
The shaft from the wheat as they say.
Seemingly spitting in your face with its
Flamboyant hues and jolly connotations,
Wicked winking glints and cynical sarcasm.
A risible twist on vengeance because the best atrocities
Are the most creative,
Nevermind cruel and unusual punishment now.

It’s just to tell you—mommy dear— that you aren’t needed,
Maybe you were once but seasons sail on and soldier boys
Learn to love a peg leg.
Just to let you know that we are perfectly content in your absence,
Not accustomed, but content.
I suppose its not absence, for to be absent
Is to have been present at least once.
Or maybe it’s to be content in the caracas of hope…
Murdered in the nonexistance of absence itself.
So why don’t you sit alone tonight in your hunchback arm chair
By a popping fire, card in wrinkled hand, and think to a time
When perhaps I did the same
 At the age of four...or ten… or seventeen,
And strain to hear the mocking apparition of Santa Clause
Wish you a merry, merry Christmas.