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Anti-Santa
He is the fingers of mist
that spider at our old hearts
at times of ice;
the midnight-beds of our panic.
The mirror red wrappings tempt
him. This cube for someone
else is surely the answer.
The answer is always armour plated.
On a distant hill,
the scape-goats sup
warm Cointreau,
and laugh at us.
On boxing day morning, each gift is dead,
limp, cold turkey.
The second pop of jack from his box
has no effect.
Something wails outside.
It appears the scape-goats died of cold in the snow.
It appears that we are alone.
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