Walking the Line
Instead of writing messages, Santa yells
into each empty bottle and jams the cork
back down. Like a big league pitcher,
he hurls them out to sea.
Mornings, he pours a little
bourbon in his coffee, laces
his boots, and begins his daily search;
checking the railroad tracks
for bits of string, abandoned packaging,
chunks of coal pulled from the earth
by machine, the detritus of boxcars
tossed out by a bump in the track:
that he can use to fill his sack.