In our dreams our version of things

will always turn out right

like the classic Christmas movie

we never grow tired of.

Each year finds us on our worn-out couch

covered in blankets looking

just a bit more worse for the wear,

hunting through the DVDs for the film.

There is Jimmy Stewart, looking grim

but plugging his way through life.

You want to shout—

Way to go, brainless, don’t you know

that it will never turn out the way you’d like?

We know from our living room

far into the future, that it doesn’t matter,

even if your own mother answers the door

and doesn’t recognize you.  In this rendering it would be enough

to tie some string around your finger and hope for the best.

 

Every year finds you doing the same

tabulation of your life.  You try to imagine

which childhood friend you saved from harm

just as they were about to go cracking

through ice so black they could never

get back.  Some years it just doesn’t

add up: Mr. Gower in his drugstore

slumped in his chair, not caring; even young George

couldn’t bring his son to life.  Violet Bick is forever

the town whore no matter what version of the universe.  And Mary

alone on a cold Christmas night.

Despite this, on our shabby couch in our shabby

apartment, overrun with dreams

of getting so far away we would never look back;

despite this, we find ourselves

on our own version of that bridge on a snowy Christmas Eve,

whispering please God, let me live again, this time let me

recognize its worth.