Epiphany: Rudolph Doing the Camel
On the pocked and blistered lawn
at 17th and Garland,
the hearty inflatable Santa
has softened into corpse pose,
and Rudolph too is in an asana,
front hooves to the back,
parachute-silk-seamed reindeer hips
open to the sky.
It’s been the kind of winter
where everyone’s been trying
to catch their too-short
tail-tangled breath:
even Rudolph’s nose-so-bright
is oh-so-dull in the dishwater daze
of after-Christmas eons-til-Easter blues.
The wind nudges Santa into “fixed firm.”
That’s when we spot the kid in a hoodie
curled beneath the nylon knees
as if he’d fallen
right through Santa’s lap.
by Peg Duthie
Editor’s Note: Holidays’ end signals the deflation of merriment, and this poem pokes fun at our arbitrary calendar with great imagery, but also an undercurrent of sadness.
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