it’s all fun & games
until someone starts
screaming about rules

sleeping until nine
the cat meowing
another Christmas hangover

With Apologies to Robert Frost

Some say that where
there’s smoke there’s fire.
Some say that’s a lie.
From what I’ve dealt
with smelling smoke
I hold with all the liars.
I smell smoke all the time;
the Parkinson’s to blame.
I think I’ve had enough of smoke
to say that I desire fire,
conflagrations, flames,
to all the fitful sniffing snuffling
triggered by my brain.

baby
jesus
please
anyway
there
it goes

so much depends
on a fat man
in a skinny chimney

I’ve taken the mints
which were in the bowl
at the hostess stand.

Forgive me:
they were free
& three years old

so stale but
still so buttery.

fifty-degree Christmas:
an old rug unfurls
balsam pine needles