Holidays

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Roadside snow recoils under a repulsive layer of
soot, grime & oily ash, like
a small child running from the twisted sentiment
of a raggedy park bum.
Silhouetted drivers rage with murderous hearts,
warring over one car length,
like tribal leaders bleeding on a lonely playground.
Nervous anorexic turkeys wait in line under
fluorescent sunlight, to lay their sagging, chemically laced breasts upon the thankless tables of ungrateful gluttons.
Masticated food bits fly blindly through the air,
as surly patrons spout flatulent pleasantries like Nazi schoolmarms.

I’m contemplating the purchase of the latest
Elvis Holiday CD, when suddenly I’m
encroached again, by the calloused carelessness
of another haggard shopper, who
has violated my personal airspace with
a warm blast of vodka & garlic laced
gingivitis, and is also presently standing on my foot,
grunts,
"Meerlee Kisshmash!”

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