The worst Christmas ever
was the first Christmas I stopped getting toys.
Age ten, I was the size of a Division III defensive lineman.
But I still wanted a Lone Ranger mask and a Daniel Boone hat
and a Dick Tracy De-Coder watch and a Buster Crabbe ring
and bats and balls and a new bike and toy soldiers
and maybe a doctor’s kit to play with that girl down the street.
I got socks,
socks,
socks, thin black socks to wear to church.
I got jockey shorts. tight and white
to wear at gym class.
And as a special surprise, that’s what Mom said,
a special surprise
a plaid clip-on bowtie for special occasions.
Definitely a special Christmas.
Special.
Sixty years later, the best Christmas ever.
I got socks, electric yellow micro minis
grip your instep, pad the balls.
And I got underpants, polyester and spandex
orange camouflage
Brazilian trunks complete with codpiece.
My wife, that little girl down the street
particularly likes the codpiece.
I don’t really know why.