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Here we go again —
the twilight of the equinox
has darkened into winter’s perpetual night.
I’ve grown a-weary of the midnight sun
here at the polar prison house.
No youthful, immortal Jove am I
but find myself frozen forever
at a corpulent seventy-five,
pin-pricking my feet
as I limp along
hauling bag after bag
from roof to roof.
(FYI, Mrs. Claus and I haven’t done it
since Nietzsche was alive,
and, no, Cialis doesn’t work:
our twin bathtubs have frozen over with ice).
The toyshop has morphed into a factory
running 3 shifts 24/7.
The elves stand dead-eyed
on stepstools along the assembly lines
cranking out what will break or soon be cast aside.
Restive, the reindeer wait back in the barn,
eager to do something besides sleep and feed,
their breaths streaming into the thin frigid Arctic air.
Come Comet, come Blitzen, ah, come, et al.
It’s time to defy Sir Isaac and take our yearly ride.
Down below stretch endless rows of tract housing,
each like the other, each with its requisite cookies and cocoa . . .
Here I go again, the Sisyphean elf, ho-ho-hoing.