The stairs are wrapped with holly and with twine;
I paddle from my room, eyes glued with sleep.
Mom’s flipping sausage: “Morning! about time.”
The biscuits are halfway done. Dad hovers
beside the George Foreman grill, watching dew
condense and drip from the glass that covers
the unfrozen hashbrowns. The smell of pine
branches drift to my nose; boxes of red
await the time when our full bellies have dined
on biscuits and gravy and hashbrowns too
and we gather: a circle of sweatpants
on leather couches by the fireplace
and I’m the Santa, passing out presents
to Mom and Dad, Hannah, Jordan, and Jen.
I like this job. I bought almost nothing
but am given all and give all away.
I think I smell the myrrh someone misplaced.
I lay it by the fire. Christ is here to stay.