Another Shitty Christmas Poem by James McLain

the neon Santa's grinning through cracked glass
and I'm laughing back, but not really.
it's the kind of laugh that crawls out of
a place too dark for Christmas lights.

the whore in my bed died sometime last night.
her last words? something about
a tip I never left.
but she took the rest of my whiskey,
so maybe we're even.

outside, the world is decked in red and green lies,
plastic cheer on sale for half-off
if you're desperate enough.
and they are—
the couples, the families,
the department store Santas with hollow bellies
ringing for nothing but their next drink.
merry fucking Christmas.

the black hole in my soul eats it all:
the carols, the garland,
the neighbor's kid crying over a broken toy.
I piss out the window.
it's too cold to care where it lands.
a spear of ice forms mid-air—
a deadly Christmas ornament.
I knew that would put a smile on your wrinkled frozen face.

downstairs, the tenants fight
over who left the tree lights plugged in.
I could tell them it doesn't matter.
this whole damn building's a fire trap,
and this whole damn holiday's a con.
buy love, wrap it up,
watch it rot under the tree.

I sit back and watch the headlines roll in:
another jumper off the 4th Street Bridge,
another overdose on Vine.
the holidays bring it out of us,
like a song we never asked for
but hum along to anyway.

the whore's still here,
her perfume poison ghosting the air.
I pour another drink,
toast to her,
to the spear in the ice,
to this black hole we call Christmas.