December 25, 1998

Waiting for the inevitable, it comes
like we all knew.
This year a piece of crap ski pole
gets the brunt of the Christmas cheer,
Sadly becoming further ingrained
as a family tradition.
Slowly tearing away all memory of
Christmas future ideals, it burns.
Reluctantly giving to joyless faces,
Quietly thankful for no clothing,
Sometimes I wish I hadn't really
given a care
Sometimes I know I did something good.
The worse it gets, the more it
becomes a part of who I am,
Like a flaw in fine art.
Like a bad habit,
Just like home.