I am done with Christmas! I’ve gotten all the gifts, and tonight I am going to wrap them up pretty tonight. I feel accomplished, especially because the work of gift-giving involves crowds, which I dislike tremendously, and involves the spending of money, which also causes me unending anxiety. The only time today I got all humbug was when a super shiny Infinity pulled out in front of me without looking, and I got a little jealous of the fact that all the super awesome stuff I wanted to get all the my lovelies the ignorant and thoughtless person in that car would be able to afford easily, but then I got over the consumerism and relaxed for a minute.
Sometimes a poem’s job is to transport, but often it is to convey the immediate. I’m going to write a poem about the now of today, and then go wrap presents. Soon, very soon, I will be in the single poem-digits. Woot!
I’ve written enough poems about the stupid weather lately. I’m in dire need of some great images, and today provided some.
Poem for the Lonely
A poem for the lonely at Christmas is a lousy thing to attempt, and so it is best left all forgotten. The one day of crowds and commerce is hideous but for the people watching. In the line at the health food store, all yoga pants and shades and puffy neon, because of the untimely weather, everyone is hip, and cool, and no one, no one but me is in dirty paint jeans and hand-me-down hoodie, and the spirit is fake and stretched thing by traffic and accounting. At a lunch break at the taco place, there are two young Seattlelights in long coats of quilted wool that broadcast their leaving, and outside a woman in torn tights walks a small dog, chow like, whose fur has been dyed aubergine, just around the face. Everyone is home now, or so it seems, given the gangs of twentyish men frequenting the local neighborhood pub, it seems, it is said, that the young have come home for a bit, to sleep, eat, and do laundry. And all their strange costumes and shiny cars are strange hurts to the lonely and alone at the holiday. Every shiny package is a brief recognition when gifted, and some are lonely, and waiting. Sorrow never skips a day, and there are a sorrowful many on the day of the birth of a saving babe. If only a babe would come and save us. And quick, for there is much to be saved, yet.
Hmm. A Christmas Shopping poem. Shopping is an intense thing for me. I dislike crowds, and traffic, and people. It makes me all yucky. Happy Monday before Christmas, poemfriends.