Boxing Day 2017

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

 

Plumber’s Assistant

Plumber comes to fix my faucet,

brings along a helper who’s hot,

twenty-something, dark hair, compact,

looks like he’d be lively in the sack,

 

quiet but with a sense of humor,

a guy who works, that kind of muscular,

clean-shaven, but shadowed before noon.

Finished with the sink, could he help in the bedroom?

 

Copyright 2013

T. Allen Culpepper