Patchy sunlight seeps through the grey December sky,
diffusing itself over the aftermath of Christmas
in the recycling bin–bottles and boxes, bits of ribbon-bows
and colored paper–and, on the table, panettone crumbs,
on what’s usually my favorite day of the Christmas season,
Boxing Day, St. Stephen’s feast, the day after the big one,
when the mood remains festive and the lights still twinkle,
but the anxious rush has calmed; this one, though, hasn’t started
right–a cold opossum rummaging through the garage predawn,
backed up bathroom pipes first thing in the morning,
so I sit here drinking coffee and worrying about that,
and about the little things–the brake light that’s out,
the cat’s dental appointment with the vet, the paper
that already should be written. Not a total crisis,
not the zombie apocalypse or the heat-death of the universe,
but it’s not always the avalanche that gets you; sometimes
it’s all the little slides.
Copyright 2017
T. Allen Culpepper
