Holiday Poem

the turkey is dead
the surplus pumpkins
sag like defeated
heads into the chin
of the field. and now
come the pointy
elves to decorate
the earth with their
plastic junk, their artificial
snow. the real Saint Nick
was the patron saint of
thieves. the phony one
we now worship
is also. but don't let me
rain on your tinsil
parade or speak of
the starving or the
Beautitudes. that we need
so many holidays and so
much obligatory giving
cheapens these hands.
I have always wanted
to be useful to the world
to dirty myself with it.
not wander from sidewalk
to sidewalk spilling my
breath out for the cold
stars.