The Christmas trees, can you see them now?
All lit and tinseled fine?
No, no, I can’t see, but I wish you wouldn’t
try to try too hard to guess why.
A truck, please, Santa,
and a few things more, if it’s not
so very much trouble…
My home to be whole, please, Santa,
or am I praying to God?
He’s off in some place where there’s no snow to see
and the gear he wears weighs him down, hot.
Give him oranges, please, Santa,
his favorite, or send him
a can of tobacco: he gets nervous
sometimes in the desert, trudging through ranks of his friends.
Bring Momma tissues, please, Santa,
and a pillow to set on the couch
for when she’s so sad that she’s silent
and, please, Santa, try not to judge if she’s slouched.
Bring me my daddy, please, Santa,
fly him home from deserts afar
and maybe the camo he wears all the time
will hide your red sleigh as it jerks past the stars.