The Christmas Show

Roll up the tents,
shut off the lights,
The Christmas Show
has left the planet again.

Don’t worry folks,
it’ll be back next year,
unless the Birthday Boy
returns
and takes us all with Him,
or the Iranians
or the North Koreans
or the Christian dispensationalists
blow us all to smithereens
with one impulsive
fanatical, self-righteous
push of The Button.

No, Virginia,
Santa Claus ain't been seen
since his marathon night
of slipping down chimneys,
taking perfunctory bites
of homemade cookies
of varying quality,
and navigating uncooperative
union reindeer.
No wonder he goes on
a three-day drunk
and hibernates until August.

It’s just one great big
international extravaganza
with garish green and red costumes
didactic sitcom narratives,
and musical adaptations
in every genre
wafting through every open space,
and you haven’t lived
until you've heard Tiny Tim’s
version of “Silent Night.”

Even the topless bars
are strung out
with Tinsel and Holly,
appearing nightly
at 8 and 11.

From His perch in Heaven
I imagine God squinting
searching His profaned,
cigarette-butted landscape

looking for
homeless teenage mothers
and the souls
who invite them in,

and the robbed,
bloody ones
(presumably unseen)
left for dead,
and the Samaritans
who carry them to safety,

because He knows
they are there,
and we know
they are there,

they’re just hard to find
amid the hustle and bustle
of The Christmas Show.