Rum Punch

It isn’t the severed head on the block

that frightens me,

or the way corn is two for a dollar

in December,

or how faces smile without meaning

as they pass in red Fords.

Yes,

my stockings are hung.

Red and green with moose heads and bear.

Labels still attached for a return I’ll never make.

And what of it?

It’s nothing,

I promise.

It’s just,

sometimes a girl

wants to be a girl,

and wear short skirts and heels

and dance to the Talking Heads

while nobody is watching.

Boots clicking on wooden floors,

hips swaying in search of rum punch

and love.

Look,

over in the corner,

the mistletoe is hung.

Christmas is coming.
See.

There’s no way of stopping it.

It will be here in a week

with ribbons and bows

and packages some will never unwrap.

And I will return to my tree,

the tabletop one with the needles dropping,

and I will kiss the ornaments,

each and everyone,

and pray they survive

another year.