POEM | Santa Claus In Training

I am becoming that old man most people like—bearded and giggling.

I am pleased with this direction, even though I likely have no choice.

I seek it. Something in my genetics, maybe. And in the genes of all the men like me.

We’re a jolly kin meant for joyhood.

Job Description: Remind them that real laughter is holy.

What do you want for your holiday/Monday/yesterday? Tell me loud or with a stare. We may not speak it, but we read body language better than most.

Who needs a chimney when you’ve got a round-trip bus ticket?

My sleigh rides the rails. Sometimes it’s pulled by a Greyhound.

Eat your cookies, we’re all diabetic now, I’m sweet enough for the both of us.

None of us are saints. None of us are truly married.

But we’re all born to be this. Joymaking is a universal balance. It’s whispered to us the first time we see the same skill in someone else.

Be merry, it says.

Be merry, indeed.

I was born for this.