Poem by J. Barrett Wolf

 

Christmash
An Homage to Capra & Dickens

Chestnuts roasting on an open fire.
An open dumpster fire.
‘Tis the season of alt­righteousness.
Mr. Potter is moving in,
a scurvy little spider,
turning the eye of commerce
to an entire vast conglomeration of things.
Bringing an end to any vague version
of charity we might have harbored, and
putting the lie to every optimistic bone in our bodies 
which will be laid to rest in the Pottersville Cemetery
over at the edge of town.
Potter’s field.

Across town, the bony fingered ghost
points silently, while his staff, 
good men of business all,
(Mankind not being theirs, of course),
are unmoved by charity and mercy,
unsuited to forbearance, or benevolence,
attend the aforementioned funeral
only if there’s a luncheon provided.
Secure in their belief 
that if any would rather die, 
they had better do it,
and decrease the surplus population.

 

J. Barrett Wolf: “Been writing for decades. No sign of stopping. Bunches published, included in 14 anthologies. Inspired by Neruda and Bukowski.”

 

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