the slice of pie

on Christmas eve
my mother
would set out a slice of pie,
mince meat,
and a glass of milk
for Santa.
peering around
the corner, unable
to sleep
I saw my father eating
the pie,
drinking the milk.
I ran out in my pajamas
and yelled, hey.
what are you doing?
that's not for you,
which made him laugh
and carry me to bed
with his rough
beard against my face,
his whiskey breath
upon me.
we'll put out more,
he said.