Tuesday, December 27, 2011


In the hour before dawn on Christmas morning
With the air as soft as a downy pillow
And the traffic so light you could play on Rowland Road
As the toddlers’ parents ponder a post-present nap
And the teen-agers parents wonder when they will be able to open,
We are walking the streets with Pirate
In the face of a looming crisis.

In our pockets there is no bag
To capture the inevitable.
Bags abundant still at home
Useless on the closet shelf.
David in the throws of worry
Me above it all.

“Ridiculous!” I scoff
“To be so utterly concerned.
2,000 walks, 2,000 bags
Who can boast of such a record?
A perfect pick up history.”

“I have a Kleenex,” David says.
“Neurotic,” echoes my reply.
Self-proclaiming Pirate chooses,
“Here’s the place where I shall go!”

Then from the shadows rings a voice
A front-porch-sitting Christmas smoker,
“Merry Christmas,” cheery call.
“Leaving us a present are you?”

There proudly sporting the smuggest smile
That ever graced the pure of heart stands
I, awaiting Dearest David
As he calmly demonstrates
the infinite worth of prior planning
And the pick-up power of the lowly Kleenex.

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