do you hurt? where does it hurt?

...
Right here, in my chest,
breathing shudders, rasps.
Sick again at Christmas.

Pneumonia with a painful shot,
please don't, please don't hold me down.
I'm left to breathe while the visiting continues.
Give the doctor a drink, 2 drinks; one for the road.

Fear of the gasping, hurting lungs
and gentle neglect here in the dark.
Don't cry, it plugs up the throat.
"Why now?", I hiccup.

I need my Christmas,
the presentation of pyramids of wrapped gifts.
Mine being a gift of a ceramic rooster,
expressing my yearning;
and a comb for the boys.
My faith in these perfect gifts
portends perfect longed-for joy.
I need to be there just in case.

Cold morning for such breathless breathing.
Cold morning for unwrapping
with fear of disappointment.
I surely love these distant relatives.
Distant in the same Christmas Cheery room.

Gosh it's cold with the fire roaring,
light glaring it's magnesium,
camera flash popping.

My hurting chest sends me to lie down.
Again I listen to noise outside my room.
Shouts of pleasure, generosity and fear.

They brought a tiny tree with lights.
Why does it shine
so coldly in the window
when I am so warm?

Better to gasp at midnight in quiet,
with soft Christmas lights glowing.
Maybe sleep will come.

What a strain this Christmas celebration has become.
I cough, I pant, whispering,
"I hurt. Do you know I'm in here?".
...

around here

...
how to let it happen is to let it roll.
dates, important dates lie in wondering waiting.

8 or so.
wondering when what where who.

So we wait.
a flowing holiday unwraps
as slowly as the most ordinary day,
sitting here to see what's there.

Oh, yes.
groceries.
dusting.
a tree.
only 1 box of memories look good.
just as good.

together.
watching a first season and laughing HA!
electronics have their place in family.

together all at once at the funk gig
where music lubricates the relationships
into a well run machine.

and there you are.
that's the holiday.
that's it.

with much tenderness against
the usual, itchy, over-planned lists and dates.

this is just the thing.
...

2 steps

...
Only two steps.
You wouldn't know it was only two, not a trek of a thousand.
Two footprints.

The mud reeks, the footprints slide into tracks, slipping down, no telltale sole of a shoe to see.

Those two steps will take themselves through eons.
Leaving drying splots until dirt-like sand, aggregate with smooshed compost, begins to break down atomically.

Perhaps not into atoms, maybe only into molecules that will stick, floating in the ionized space, just above the flooring.
...
...