Saint Nicholas, Don’t Be Mad At My Kid

My child awakes singing sweet songs, the infant

Rocking in his bed, holding a plush toy elephant.

Leaves are plastered upon the walk, everywhere clumped and scattered 

Upon the soaking ground outside, as if not it mattered.

That I am downstairs in the study, warmed with coffee,

Listening to my boy, composed and breathing easy

Knowing my wife lay in bed also listening with a  sleepy joy.

There is a song of youth for every morning. Like an offered toy

Innocence lifts its voice, clothed in my boy’s little body, to the sky

Riding his voice like a soaring eagle, forever graceful to fly

over our cozy lives, a protector in zippered pajamas

Making up his own words and sprinkling them with commas

A conjuring of hugs and happiness soars

And enlivens my chores. 


The darkness outside is content. 

It has its train whistles rolling through 

valleys laden with fog and woodsmoke

Everything cozy.

Except for Nicolas Cage.

He’s going to lose his shit any minute.

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