No more pecan pie for breakfast tomorrow.

Sticky Uncle Cliff suspiciously stood licking his fingers.

Two cookies drowned in fudge frosting left out for Santa,

and milk.

White-lit Rudolf blown over in the front yard,

trap of string and bells meticulously erected for his arrival

with lead wires wedged under our tree with no angel,

and celery for Rudolf.

Christmas lights turned on inside and outside,

carolers sent to someone else’s house,

fire hiding behind wet logs,

and we were sent to bed.

A short ring, muffled groan, and all is silent.

Oldest brother taps me on the foot,

I forget – falling back to sleep.

And never believing again, my

red-faced brother, all tears in the morning

at the red and green breakfast table.

“Santa,” he told me, looked like father

who is no Saint at all.

“Santa” left the same way he came in –

stumbling through the front door, he said,

carrying my reindeer-glass filled with whiskey,

and drowning a cigar in the fudge frosted cookies.

You’re wrong, but no matter - Dad always did look like Santa.

I’ll have another pancake,

with syrup, yes please.

And what did you say - Santa is a phony?

What about Rudolf?

We were all lied to said my brother,

just wait until you uncover the truth.

Magic will never appear real again, he said.

But my brother still gave autographs to the neighborhood kids

for meeting the most famous Saint in the world.

Meanwhile “Santa” lay sprawled atop a white-frosted Rudolf in our front yard,

and red blotches stained his puffed cheeks, when I met him later that morning.

I resurrected “Santa” and sent him to bed that Christmas,

replaced a white-lit Rudolf to his upright position

returned a chipped reindeer-glass to the kitchen