Christmas morning,
sunlight creeping in like a landlord
knocking for rent.
stocking caps hung limp,
empty as a politician’s promise.
the tree stood bare,
no gifts, no mess,
just me and my mismatched socks
staring into the abyss of “nothingness.”
in the kitchen,
milk sweating in its glass,
a plate of cookies looking desperate,
their sprinkles pleading,
but the whiskey?
gone.
bottle tipped over,
glass still sticky with a smear of regret.
and there it was—
a note,
scrawled in handwriting like a drunk uncle’s:
“Roof’s jacked. My bad.
Tell your insurance it’s sleigh damage.
Good luck with that one.”
then the kicker,
a postscript dripping with dread:
“P.S. Tariffs are coming.
Toy production’s gonna tank next year.
Better start saving for socks or coal.”
outside,
the roof—
a crime scene of shingles,
a splintered gutter dangling like a tooth
knocked loose in a bar fight.
inside,
me,
sitting by the empty tree,
thinking:
at least the cookies survived,
but if Santa’s right about the tariffs,
I should probably hide the whiskey
next year.
