A Festive Poem

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Balanced precariously on the backs of chairs
tacking awkwardly strung together Christmas cards
to the pelmet,
with thumbs feeling like pressed-out putty
and the kids scrambling,
squealing — ‘We can touch the ceiling!’

The time of the year we damn Auntie
for her ‘thought that counts’ gift of gussies
untimely opened;
and brightly choke
our stunted she-oak with tangled lights
only to see them bad-connectedly go
phftt.

Time we make the drunken fruit mince
and rub flour into the calicoed pudding
knowing all the while we’ll be too hot to eat it

tomorrow …

sitting on the beach
with sandflies on our silver hair-bleached arms
we say listlessly,
‘It doesn’t really feel Christmassy.’

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