Poem for the Day

Ghosts of Christmas
 
There are ghosts in this house,
a factory turkey, paper stockings,
a machine gun, boiled fruit cake,
an old Santa without raiment,
sculling back a skinful.

If you unearthed these boards
you'd find presents from a wishlist;
a Christmas tree; my son climbing
with a star, the wild scent of pine
filling every room.

And on Christmas morning,
the crush of paper underfoot;
trucks working the berber from the rug,
the throaty roar of crackers,
machines and gadgets spilling their noise
into a five am quiet.

Our children moved on small bicycles
that fitted in the backyard shed.
They circled their energy on paths,
fought, played, snuck back under
sheets, to rise like eerie ku-klux men.

These little things keep returning,
an unopened chemistry set,
gifts for the Salvos
ghosts of the big picture
haunting me again.