The Family Favorite

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A January corpse

lies face down 

In a frozen stream of gutter soup

abandoned like a thought

forgotten like a dream

a Christmas skirt tangled 

in its limbs.

Just hours ago 

that cadaver

was our family favorite

the center of attention

bigger than life 

twinkling

like the skyline is right now

I remember when you first came home 

Daddy carried you in

like he was balancing a birthday cake 

Or a hand grenade with a missing pin

Mommy fed you 

dressed you 

and stared at you all night

as she sat in the comfy chair near the fireplace 

and serenaded you with happy songs

as the snow 

outside swirled

like parade confetti gone mad.


But it turned out that you were not easy to live with.


You were too much work.

You were in the way.

You took up too much space

You were a constant mess

You were no longer wanted.

You were no longer loved.


So out you went, 

unlike the way you came in.


And then 


we simply rearranged the furniture and got on with our lives.


And now there you lie,

breathless,

disfigured and still

beneath a cruel clawed wind,

a symbol of nothing,

waiting to be hauled away

by the City of New York.


I can see you down below,

through my one window to the world

as if you fell, 

as if you were pushed,

lit by the crackling light 

of the Budweiser sign. 

And as a stray dog sniffs you

and people sail by like tugboats

expelling puffs of white vapor from nostrils and mouths

My heart is suddenly seized by the faint, sad echo of song and good cheer

of days past

and I wonder:

Will anyone ever speak of you?

Will anyone remember

this family favorite?  


Will anyone remember this Christmas tree?

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