POEM: The Night After Christmas

The stockings are hung by the chimney with care
but their skinniness now is post-partum.
Cards stretched like laundry from strings--do we toss
them? If not, then to where should we cart 'em?

The gifts, once mysterious, papered and bowed,
turned out to be perfectly common.
The paper is crumpled and piled in a heap
and the ribbons are scattered like ramen.

Strings of lights still entwine the now drooping-branched tree
but the needles are to dry to risk them.
The last of the cookies have met their demise--
down the garbage disposal we whisk them.

The holiday puzzle which never got done
gathers dust, like the boughs on the mantel,
while once again strains of the Beach Boys replace
the chorused Messiah of Handel.

Red napkins, red tablecloth, red welcome mat
are wadded on top of the washer
while holly-sprayed china awaits its return
to the closet, each cup and each saucer.

Mama in her bathrobe and me in my sweats
confront the disaster before us.
We call for our offspring to help us clean up
and dismantle the tree; they ignore us.

I'm sure I have something more urgent to do--
Our timing is always superb.
And I hear her exclaim, as we each drive away,
"Help me get this tree out to the curb!"

(written January 6, 1993)