Rain on snow melts a white Christmas
into slush down-the-drain.
After airport drop-off,
thanking kids for coming and being known,
we eat breakfast at Fat City diner.
A newspaper article about a woman saving
starving horses and real cream in my coffee
grab me. You read comics.
We’re home too soon to Santa
paper stuffed under the couch.
The nutcracker’s beard is missing.
Jigsaw zebras stare
at the box they escaped.
The dog squeaks her fleece pheasant
to replace the omnipresent noise
of little ones who took their toys.
We pick at bones,
finding turkey flesh and gristle
enough for soup.
The scent of boiling leftovers —
for a snowman’s nose,
sherry in gravy —
rich and simple,
promise dinner will be good.
© by Tricia Knoll.
Used with the author’s permission.