people shove

through crowds of overflowing shopping bags;

santa sits

in the corner

on his ruby chair,

his piercing laugh

echoing in my tiny ears



i pray that he is not the real

santa that comes to visit once a year

because if he is

i'm not leaving him oreos;



his bright shiny nose

poised clumsily on his great round

face,

and his raunchy breath

seeping generously

from his wide open mouth

blows

making me cringe



a huge christmas tree

is advancing in my direction

there must be a person inside

because there is a face peering

out of a circle cut in the middle;

two legs are emerging

from the bottom

replacing a trunk



it leans over to ask me my name

and i kick it