Don't

I'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 The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 157 times
Written on 2018-12-04 at 18:13

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Coo & Co The PoetBay support member heart!
Members of Coo & Co find plenty to like in this piece. We admire the L5 simile, for example, and the L9 alliteration. We also enjoyed our misinterpretation of 'present', which caused us to muse on gray and grim gifts. Our FT suggests a packet of old underwear. Honestly, FT :>/
2018-12-05