There will be nowhere else to be
and Santa’s glass existence will smash
against the sidewalk in the last failed factory
town, where tire swings make no sound
as they sway from burned out oak trees.
Buttons will collect in puddles
where the bodies of snowmen succumbed
sideways; their lazy coal eyes carried
away by the saw-cawing crows.
A single red mitten, like a bloodstain,
will mark the driveway where Santa’s mind
rewinds to the night when all was a clatter.
Abandoned, the streets won’t give a damn
about what one old man thinks is the matter.
Overhead, icicles drip drip drip into icepicks.
Amelia Martens


Amelia Martens

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