Santa Claus

So I’m not doing Christmas this year.
Don’t think I’m Scrooge or the Grinch,
but the season has become too long and
commercial. Craft stores have stuff in July.
By September the rest are decorating,
offering boxed gifts and pushing Christmas carols.
By Thanksgiving we’re weary,
without meaning or spirit.
The touch and feel are familiar, and
like protracted lovemaking, we risk
disappointment with the climax on the twenty-fifth!

So I’m not putting up a tree this year.
It will save me the distress
of decideing how to decorate it.
All red? All gold? A mixture?
Seashell theme?
Silly, sentimental ones?
Beads or no beads? Colored or white lights?
Artificial trees are practical.
Real ones shed like a Persian.
And one year the cat ran up
the tree and pulled it down!

So I’m not decorating for Christmas this year.
I won’t drink coffee from cheery Santa cups
or sip egg nog from gilded goblets.
No holly wreath with lights hugging the door,
no red-nosed reindeer, no glittering cherubs,
no waiting stockings by the chimney,
no grinning nutcrackers standing tall,
no garland over every mirror.
Banish Santa towels, snowmen, elves,
bells, chimes, ho-ho-hos,
nativity scenes, poinsettias and hues of green and red!

So I’m not cooking for Christmas this year.
I’m tired of all that fuss and work for one meal
when they’d rather have pizza anyway!
Turkey, dressing, gravy, cranberries, fruit salad,
green beans, candied yams, hot rolls,
cookies, pies, candy,
fudge, more cookies, bread pudding,
nuts, snacks,
mulled cider, wine with Santa’s pink cheeks on the label
and fruitcake no one eats.
My kitchen is too small for all that cooking anyway!