By Sharon Thompson
Tonight, in fog and winter
you slam the receiver down
like an obstetrician nips an umbilical cord.
I curl fetus-like on the
beige and russet sofa,
wiggling down into flattened cushions,
shoot up a TV special.
Thick Xmas cheer. Peace on earth, for kids, really.
It tickles me
like a nanny’s finger.
I chuckle and coo
my own lullaby,
“I’ll get along.
“I’ll be fine.”
Bullshit. I’d frisk across my green carpet
if I could only wrap and deliver one last gift.
I’d romp with glee if I
could manage tonight
to get good and damn even
with a final gift,
something with tiny, sharp teeth
coming down your chimney for a nasty first bite.
Oh, what a shiny Xmas bike that would be.
About Sharon Thompson
Sharon Thompson has been writing for most of her life. Love of reading and writing led to a twenty-year career teaching high school English, first in Los Angeles and finally in the San Diego area. Now retired, Sharon enjoys focusing on her writing, attending workshops and reading her work for others. She lives with her dachshund, Sam, in Temecula, California, close to her two grown sons.