Don'tI'm sixty-fucking-five years old. It's snowing.
And I have no urge to propagate the season's
Insincere and coerced Christmas cheer.
My hands are numb. My wallet's empty.
My car slides like butter on a griddle on these
Frozen roads. My son can't drive. He's lost
His license, drunk, as I am every night,
Which means I must drive him around.
The present's gray and grim, and I can't even
Curse the winter yet. If you wish to remain
Alive, don't say that, since I have a beard,
I ought to dress in red and white, and chuckle,
“Ho, ho ho.”
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 157 times
Written on 2018-12-04 at 18:13
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email