Sugarplums
on the Second Christmas Alone
My icy hand waves as they go
Back to the mausoleum in the cold
I’ve cleaned the tiles to the
stone
Vacuumed carpets free of dust
Scrubbed slick the perfumed rooms
The dirt that stays is in my
blood
With a leaden echo as it pumps
My family’s gone to celebrate
By way of gifts and scents and food
I am the father who chose to stay
While children and the wife went
on
Ignore accept deny the shame
Songs doped up in me are mute
Not a sadder Christmas in a book
My home is three-times full of
bones
Their whispers rising thin and
cold
A Christmas tree stands stark in
folds
Without a little hand to touch
its limbs
Loneliness is a four bedroom house
With surplus loft like sayings
such as
Happy holidays to me in this
abode
This is my second Holy Night
alone
Once before in dark San Cristobal
A plot with trash and weeds and
moans
Some fireworks and weak array of
sky
But sound asleep until the wisps
of light
Tonight ajar with visions of sugarplums
A star and kings dancing in my head
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