seasonal gifts.

Cuddle-duds

unopened , the girl on the front  package sitting

as if in a carriage. Mauve handkerchief's that

represent the googolplex of the same from

years past. Figi's meat and cheese assortments

from that crazy woman in the vest like a village hamlet.

The slippers made of thick corduroy still in

their subfamily ethyl.

The Nutribullet that couldn't be figured out.

The golden jaguar painting on

black velvet with the border of green

gemstones.

The loose powder that makes Mother

into the radioactive ghost corresponding.

The sweaters.

The, too many sweaters.

The doll house with assorted spare plastic

parts (figure 2 of three with addendum)

betwixt  the boneset

of miniature  dreamy white people staring off.

The electric knife?

Why?

The bottle of cheap wine for the post-lady

who makes faces, who I imagine

naked, kicking the beardless garden

irises of my dream.

The perpetual gingham vest

to wear with my gold tooth glistening

in our episodes of love. The long

handled shoe-horn, still hanging like

Mussolini amongst the partisan throng.

The years subscription to "Good Housekeeping"

with instructions on how to clean the diamond ring

of 09's promise.

The Christmas ornament with the names

of this years dead suspended and disjointed

as in life.

Yes, Another year, oh precious Jesus,

and I thank you..

Reviews

[Delmar Cooper]

Wow, that was intense. I can smell the pine around that ornament, see the gas station in Milan. Tactile words with aroma.

[Pete Langley]

Sardonic, rueful....then finally thankful.....what I suppose would be called a `list` poem by the cognoscenti. But no, I think this is much more. The list starts your thoughts and feelings a`rolling....and you share them delightfully. You have the gift of drawing the reader into your world and holding on to him. So many tableaux...."The bottle of cheap wine for the post-lady/ who makes faces, who I imagine/ naked, kicking the beardless/ irises of my dream...." Thank you for sharing this. P

[W.k.kortas]

I suspect it is not an uncommon feeling to realize, when the time comes to purchase the obligatory gifts for the season, how little we know about those in our lives, even those we swear we hold nearest and dearest, and, if we take that further, the absurdity of all of interpersonal relationships, every bit as absurd as the jaguar painting or the electric knife. The last eight lines are disquieting, with the promise of the diamond and the "ornament with the names/of this years dead" butting up against one another. Ho ho ho, indeed.