Fa-la-la
Red, green, red, green--
your lights nictitate like
arrogant cop cars,
making my eyes throb
as your garlands drip
Yule-shine onto the crust
of this decomposing snow.
All night you're dreaming of
the right Christmas--
gilded styrofoam,
tinsel and trash beneath a tree
of wires strung like nerves.
Let's admit that you're dying
to get it over with,
the frozen fa-la-la
for that suckling in the cow trough,
who will someday wander
the tepid Israeli hills
in dusty sandals,
knowing nothing
of such nonsense.
