Christmas 2

Santa courtesy of Etsy, eBay, or Pinterest, I can’t remember which

Douglas Fir Plywood Company Santa, circa 1957

Plywood Santa

Each year we lift, we wire, 
our red-suited saint, Santa, 
flush to the chimney, 
his ho ho ho 
a devotional metronome, 
mitted wave cleaving 
two dimensions of snow— 
and for this brief season 
he seems half real,
beaming, waiting, 
for the coming 
of his remaining girth,
the one night he’s able 
to feel whole (for how else 
can he deliver?)

And on Christmas morning, everything 
under the tree, by the fireplace, the sight 
of orange peel, cookie crumbs, an empty glass, 
is enough to spark in any lucky child
retrospective dreaming—that a promise made 
could raise the world beyond itself: 
what cannot be, rendered luminous—
stomach, stockings, desires, fulfilled. 

But then overnight
there arrives 
the leavings, 
a return to limits, 
vacation vacated, 
that chimney elf mute, 
peeling, bound 
in rain, rust, the glare 
of mundane suns—
with children
well sated,
off to school, 
and nothing 
   touched,
        felt 
            or seen
consecrated.