Out of the Box
The present that is opened disappears.
It ceases to be present. It is past.
My soul past all such disappointment steers
This morning. Joy still fades, but not as fast.
As I resist all greed, the future’s vast
With promising unknowns that yet might be.
Why should the treeside die be duly cast?
Why not remain in possibility?
Santa, shut up! Your sheer vulgarity
Is quite enough to make me count you out.
Your presents I shall leave unopened, see?
If you don’t hear my quiet words, I’ll shout.
One present must be opened, though. I mean
The Baby Jesus, Savior long foreseen.