Remembering Christmas Poem by Morgan Michaels

A small dark plane is parked outside the complex.
A span of wings hangs over the glistening snow.
On the fuselage Fox News or CNN or something.
Crewmen mill about arm-flapping against the cold.

The night is crossed and looped with beams and cables
Lense men decide the best place to pitch the cameras
Candles burn tall at a table decked with holly-boughs.
It has stopped snowing. All is merry and bright.

There on the terrace sits Mrs. Claus herself
Mittened, beribboned, wrapped in a fur-lined parka
The slightly-embarrassed focus of so much attention,
But growing momently more and more at home.

She is talking to an interviewer-no, a whole panel of them
Having decided-why not-in favor of mikes
Of which six whistle and crackle in an arc before her
Beside a platter of just-baked Christmas goodies.

Into the microphone she says 'Yes, I pack the gifts.'
Wrapping each in plasticene or muslin.
Yes, she packs the Mister's lunch and dinner
It's a long way, all around the world, no?

Including, yes, the beers-not too many or too few
To keep the chill off and make the travelling light
And steel him for that intercontinental flight
Dark and tumultuous, over the Bering Strait.

Yes, she adores the deer, laying in for each
An extra measure of hay, some carrots, persimmons
Before they fly, wetly kissing each ones nose,
Wishing the great creatures safe haven.

They lower their heads, snort, and paw the
Ground sheepishly, mindful of her concern
Then she smiles, waves, draws her flannels about her
As the caravan begins to race, the whip crack,

With a 'hey ho my hearties, ' over the frozen turf,
Faster and faster, much like a 747, faster
Until suddenly airborn, gone and flying past the moon,
leaving her alone in the shadowy stillness.

'No, ' she never...