It is Christmas Eve.
I am making like Saint Nick, and hit the road.
I grab the presents and leave.
I find myself in traffic weave and unweave,
and try to keep up with the cars as they flowed.
The towns drift by quickly in blurs and smears I perceive.
The radio stations play nonstop Christmas music and I believe
Santa Claus will lend me his reindeer whenever traffic slowed,
then again maybe I am just naive.
When I see the signs for my parents’ hometown, I relieve
my grip of the steering wheel and know soon I will be at their abode.
Once I get to their doorstep, I unload the presents with one big heave.
My son waits for me and I receive
one big hug then grabs the brightly papered load.
He tells me about the neighborhood lights in each yard and on each eave.
It is the holidays and we gather together to achieve
one special moment of laughter, dinner and every holiday episode
that we could ever conceive.
This is Christmas Eve.
Poetic Trials 