Christmas Eve Rush

a Christmas poem

Christmas Eve shoppers invading the store like

            A filthy swarm of

            Buzzing

            Black

            Gnats and

She—of all people—

Has to be running The checkout counter:

            The first one on the far left,

            Closest to the clearance rack,

            Closest to the exit door and

            Closest to the zoo on days like this.

And she has to be the one running it and

Running it in an unwisely chosen, too itchy

            Holiday cheer wool sweater:

            Green with big red letters:

            Merry Christmas!

Her grandmother made her that sweater and she

Only dares touch the hideous wooly-mess

On days like this,

When her heart is begging for Christmas

And cups of homemade hot cocoa—

A few dozen marshmallows sprinkled on top.

She sighs             (Can’t help but throw in a little grumble while doing so):

Just                                          Three more

                                                Agonizing

                                                Hours

Then she’ll be home,

Sitting with her back to the fire,

Wrapped in flannel pajamas and a fleece blanket,

With this silly itchy wool sweater smiling at her from the back of the couch,

Her dog on her lap asleep and

The phone beside her,

Waiting expectantly for her boyfriend to call and

Tell her “Good night!”

And “Merry Christmas Eve!”

And “See you tomorrow!”

            She knows what her present will be:

            Had seen it a week before,

            Supposedly hidden in his pencil drawer:

            A small black velvet box which

            Seems unbelievably too far away as

She runs another price tag under the scanner,

Which is always stubborn during such a

Tedious and hectic shift—

What type of person,

She wonders,

Would ever buy someone a plunger—

Store wrapped—

For Christmas?