Her Santa (Again)

Photo via DaPugle Pugs @ flickr.com

He sits in his favorite lounger, with whiskey and a Cuban

Lightly tracing her flaws

She is often late and messy

Wants little and loves easily

Her hair clogs the tub and she is overly attached to hot sauce

Obsessed with olives and nursery rhymes, she is forever young

And silly enough to survive this world

Her absence has presence, always on him like dog’s hair

With her good cheer and warm hands,

She thinks he looks like a surly Claus when she wakes up on the wrong side of him

He thinks he looks like Mark Wahlberg in that gangster movie

But she sees him beyond the bluster

And freely accepts the blemishes with a softness he doesn’t deserve

She is his best friend, the hidden mirror and open door to himself

Still, he won’t be a pushover and play fool Santa for her students

Again

So he has rehearsed his refusal before she breezes through the door

Rosy-cheeked and breathless from the cold trot back from the dog park

She approaches like a panther and an angel, all-commanding yet feather-light

His cheek grows toasty with her kiss; she is his fire

So when she slides the worn Santa costume into his lap, with a goofy sigh, he shuffles off to put it on.