So you're finally trekking back
home—cold December
gym member;
and outside
there's these—tall pretty spruce
trees—or maybe
faux fir
branches wound
around tight with jam-
colored
gold-
and-silver gilded
garlands—to say nothing
of nearby
dry, bright holly
berries with baked-
on pine cones, nestled
neat and
sticky in well-
appointed poinsettia plants
and wreathes—silly
cheery cherry redwood ones,
ribboned, champagne-
glittered—
with dumb apples
and those grapes
that are fake—and Jesus!
what the heck
is this?
doesn't it just seem?—
the more festive
a thing,
the less likely
it is—
you can eat it.
