Santa Came Early – Poem

Santa came early this year,
Forcing his way into the home,
With his wrinkling pink skin,
And flabby red clothes,
He encountered the usual problem.

Standing on the high rooftop,
Overlooking all the cities of the world,
Santa viewed his domain with pride,
For such a short time,
The world is his.

Turning his back on the dimming twinkles,
It’s time to take the plunge with hope,
Santa needs to climb down the chimney,
He needs to get into the home,
And that was where his problem came.

Squeezing, forcing, trying, pushing,
Santa’s red clothing bunched up past his waist,
His protruding belly – so large and so flabby,
Flopped over the top and jammed him good,
He struggled against the brick red.

Constrained and restrained, about to burst,
Santa could do nothing but fight the pressure,
Ignoring the burning salt and pain,
Until all of a sudden…
… Pop!

With a noiseless crash, soot all around,
Santa landed from the fall and smiled,
The routine, the cycle, on yearly repeat,
There by his large bum – a mince pie and carrot,
Both soon eaten and in his increasing tum.

Silent footsteps as he climbed the stairs,
He knows the journeys in everyone’s home,
For those few moments, he shares his heart,
In the doorway he pauses, watching the snores,
The infants he watches grow.

Reaching into his sack, as large as his belly,
Santa winces with a moment of pain,
A slice of red trickles down his arm,
Where it caught on a stray, rough brick,
He has to ignore it and complete his task.

Santa leaves the presents for these two children,
And then watches them for a moment more,
A solitary tear runs down his cheek,
Catching in his wiry, pure white whiskers,
At all that he never had, and never will.

For all those years ago when Santa took the job,
He had to give up all that he could ever have,
For the children of the world,
Aside from the elves, the reindeers,
Santa spends his year alone, working hard.

Mince pies, cookies, turkey and crisps are his comfort,
The smiles and the letters, the kisses and love,
Those are his only reward, the only tangible,
The things that keep him sane in his solitude,
Santa has to be a ghost.

Slipping into a home, unseen and unheard,
Until the Earthquake shattering discovery,
Santa’s been! Santa’s coming!
It’s a routine, a given, a repeating event,
Until good ol’ Santa comes early.

He watches them sleep, sees how they’ve grown,
He visits every year, remembers each and every one,
The good little boys and girls are his only future,
His for only a short time,
Before his own immortality mocks him.

© Persephone M

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