it was my father, not
Santa Claus
that ate
the large slice of
mincemeat pie
that my mother left
on the table.
it was he
who drank the milk,
and downed
the shot of whiskey.
i knew
that no one was coming
down the chimney.
we had no
chimney.
we lived in a seven story
high rise
in the city.
i was absolutely certain
that there were
no magical
reindeer, or elves
up in the north pole
making toys all
year long.
i knew, it was all a bunch
of Bs at the age of three,
but i played along,
it seemed
to make both
parents happy, which was
a rarity back then.
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