Because this is a poetry-related blog, I give you:
The overturned garbage can spews wrapping paper,
greasy turkey skin and broken ornaments
all squeezed from the caulking gun that is Christmas
and scattered among needles the cat dislodged
on one of its forays into the branches of the tree
before someone thought to spray it with the plant-mister.
Don’t tell me it’s about Jesus,
don’t tell me it’s about peace on Earth —
it’s about who’s got the latest must-have-it gadget,
it’s about stomachs filled
with the freshest tender and mild delicacy
that by the time this day arrives
has all the appeal of half-cooked sausage,
the redeeming grace of deep-fried anything.
Snow sticks to our boots
the way the last dollop of shortbread dough
clings to our fingers.
Soon we’ll quake at the sight of
a new year looming,
a tsunami of bills,
but for now, all is calm.
We’ve managed to plough through another one,
dishes scraped clean and banished to the sink,
carols fading into the night, replaced by the new
—and last—Amy Winehouse.
We listen, shake our heads,
then go outside to more closely examine
the pure light of stars.
It's never quite that bad, but it could be. There endeth another Christmas. I love it, Ted does not, I baked like crazy, I put on weight, I feel awful, but in spite of all that, I wouldn't miss it for the world, and isn't that a delightfully ambiguous remark?