A Steak Knife in His Hand
Santa wakes up with a face full
of gravel and a mouth of cotton.
The sunlight is electric to his sockets
as he sits up sideways in a driveway.
Up the hill, a house is guarded by gnomes
and plastic flamingoes with alarm
in their eyes. An emptied fifth of gin
falls from Santa’s pocket.
Somewhere his daughter makes a list,
checks it twice, and trims him
from the family tree; her children will know
only stories, cleaned up to deflect
a mythology built on vodka soaked yule
logs and a hearth that glitters with glass.