a holiday poem

Man.  I’m hungry.

‘Tis the night before Christmas and I am at home
sitting in bed and composing a poem.
My bathrobe is hung by its hook on a door.
Underwear’s strewn on the unvacuumed floor.

One cat is curled up at the foot of the bed.
With visions, no doubt, of dead bugs in her head.
The other cat’s downstairs, most likely asleep.
No worries, no job, no appointments to keep.

And I, in my nakedness, type like a fiend
writing this verse on my laptop (wide-screened).
The TV is off, but the air cleaner hums.
What’s chaffing my ass?  Oh – some old cracker crumbs.

There’s no tree in the house and no presents to wrap.
I’m an old single guy and I don’t do that crap.
I don’t leave out cookies and milk for the elf.
I don’t even have any snacks for myself.

The crackers, you see, were from sometime last week.
Since then, I’ve had nothing but salads (all Greek).
There’s canned food downstairs.  Of that I am sure,
but, for me at least, kidney beans hold no allure.

That being the case, there’s not much to say.
I guess I’ll just starve for the rest of the day.
Tomorrow, however, I’m having lasagna.
I’d offer to share, but you might get some on ya.

So have a nice Christmas, alone or with friends,
and think of me starved, as this poem portends,
but do not get misty-eyed.  Nay!  Do not weep!
I’ll surfeit tomorrow.  Tonight, I shall sleep.

TWD