Dear Dad, I saw you again
this year: your clip clop
tip toes across the octave
of floorboards, the stocking
swinging like a severed limb
– Christmas murders –
Mum is asleep or dead:
you hang the leg from the end
of her son’s bed: what cruel
seasonal awakenings await.
You turns to watch the child
asleep, that Yankish look of:
"My life is worthwhile,
my beautiful boy,
this angel."
Dad – I'm not asleep.
You’re not wearing your glasses.
But still I see the stocking
is lumpy like your victim
had varicose veins or swollen ankles
and for this I can be thankful.
