Santa Claus Poem by Gordon McDougall

I've served some decades in the old man's stead,
ever since those half-remembered Christmas Eves
when, having laid a pillowcase on your bed
replete with gifts: Sylvanian Families,
Barbie's Wedding, Masters of the Universe,
The Penguin Book of Children's Loony Verse
and a young person's version of Little Dorrit,
I would tiptoe to the door, return and kiss your forehead,
descend the stairs and, claiming my reward,
would swig the port (not fancying the mince pies)
we'd left for Santa Claus to gourmandise.

In years to come, from separate homes, we would negotiate
so many days before, so many after --
Christmases snatched from the teeth of sour debate
and not distinguished much by children's laughter;
Santa Claus replaced by envelopes
containing vouchers, tokens, cheques; hopes
of hands-on parentage reduced to quality time --
Macdonalds meals and a dull pantomime --
years when I'd try to please and you'd respond
and, aping families engulfed by homeliness,
we'd wave across a sea of loneliness.

As old as him tonight, across a restaurant table sipping
Chateauneuf du Pape, I see your mother's cold grey eyes
enquiring if I'm adequately tipping;
it won't be Santa down your chimney this year, I surmise.
You stopped believing in the old man long ago
and now you live a life I'll never know.
And yet I sense a sigh you cannot voice,
seeking that half-forgotten kiss, that lack of choice,
wondering if broken homes may be repaired
when surer strongholds rise above the strife
-- fathers not just for Christmas but for life.