the next morning

the detective comes to your
door to question you.
it's early morning
with a thin layer of snow
on the ground. he
ask if you saw anything,
remember any details about
the crime that happened
on the corner last night.
the mugging.
you are still groggy from
the eggnog, spiked with rum.
still in your red slippers,
your robe, your night cap,
with the fuzzy ball
on the end flopping over.
I peeked out the window,
it was around midnight
and me and jezebelle were
about to go to sleep,
you tell the cop.
she grabbed the baseball bat
from under the bed that we keep
there in case of break ins.
and I saw a crowd
of elves beating the tar
out of a very
large man wearing a velvet
red suit. something about
low wages, harsh factory
conditions. I heard one
small fellow yell out in
a high squeaky voice,
you're not the boss of me
anymore, fat man.
it all happened very fast,
you might say in the twinkling
of an eye.
I see, the cop says, writing
it all down. anything else?
I think drinking might have
been involved. i saw a bunch
of those little airplane
vodka bottles all over
the sidewalk. then they all
untied these deer from
a large sleigh and each one
flew off with an elf on its back,
not to mention a bunch of gift
wrapped boxes that were in a sack.
what about the man, the man
they beat up.
oh, he knocked on the door
last night, wouldn't stop.
but I don't let
strangers in. jezebelle threw a cup
of hot water out the window
on him. then he was up
on the roof for awhile trying
to get down the chimney, as if.
but I sent my dogs out to chase
him away.
last I saw of him, he
was wobbling down the street,
with his suit all torn
and his nightshirt hanging
out the back.
this neighborhood is falling
apart officer.