Christmas Poem

In July, when the air hangs like a
Dense sheet of plastic smoke,
Children hope for today.
They pray for the death of leaves
And would gladly sacrifice summer’s
Freedom for a glimpse of a
Rotting tree in the living room.

In July, children with dirt caked
On their cheeks and small streams
Of sweat carving clear paths through the grime
Make lists in hope of today.
They browse catalogs and furiously scribble
1-800 numbers from television commercials
In anticipation of today’s perfection.

And tomorrow, when garbage bags of
Glittered paper and bows with intricate loops
Sit disheveled on a frozen curb,
Children with sweaters they hate
Will plead with the Christ-child to hurry July,
So they can play with their new football.