It’s Christmas Eve
and I’m still waiting
for my first Yule stiff
even though it’s, like,
freezing cold in bundled
rabbit fur and the stretch
of spandex leopard print
doesn’t cover the rent
when my Santa’s sitting at home
in our favorite motel room
all nice and toddy warm
while he unwraps Alyssa
with his gold-plated
connosieur’s charm
even though she’s only sixteen
and can’t run in heels
or spot a counterfeit cop
passing undercover bills,
so you know it’s not like
she knows how to treat
a man like he’s the only
thing between the hole
in her life and the night
when the hole is all
that’s ever been real.

Yet all I can do
is smoke my cigarettes
and watch the stoplights
flash red-yellow-green,
like ghost town angels
who have lost their wings
and now hang suspended,
swaying above the streets
while the naked juice
empties into their veins
and their toes stretch out
as if reaching out
for the starveling points
that needle in between
the softness of their hidden
seams like the hard neon
spikes of a heavenly crown
that can never be bought
but must ever be paid,
like a cold Christmas wish
on a cold Christmas morn
before the coldest of hearts
can break an even colder dawn.