One of these days
I'll get around to it.
Every Christmas
for twenty three years
it has been my "thing".
A tradition that
insinuated itself
into my yearly yule
routine. Grown daughters
home for the night
wide-eyed as they used to be.
Innocent as I'd like them
to remain. "Believers" still.
And as all and the mice
assume a non-stirring
posture, I bide my time.
Waiting for every last one
to achieve dream stage,
sugar-free sugar plums
not withstanding. In the
silent night I creep
having donned the outfit
every year for twenty three.
Me, my bag, my scratchy beard.
No one sees what they don't know.
For the night my cover is secure.
I am the man. I am Santa.
One of these days, I'll get
around to it. I'll stop
wearing the suit and slinking
through a dimly lit Christmas Eve.
Pass on the tradition.
One of these days. But not today.
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