An untitled poem about long ago Decembers (a poem)


I remembered
as I was driving back home
that Santa had my mother’s handwriting
plus a slight smear of ink
from putting the tag on the present

When I think about it
I remember neither subterfuge
nor betrayal

We simply never questioned the conceit

Santa never appeared in quotation marks
I never pointed out what was obvious to all

I can’t call it innocence
or purity

But I know that’s something
I’ll never find anywhere else

(3 December 2021)

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