It was the right kind of chaos.
Wrapping paper was destroyed
With violent prejudice, revealing gifts,
Which were, in turn, either valorized
Or swiftly, ingloriously dismissed.
Food was feasted upon,
Drinks drunk,
And there were tears and laughter,
In the usual proportion.
The children were all aspiring tyrants,
But a grim parliament of adults
Withstood them bravely,
And therefore the dog
Was not permitted chocolate,
And the oldest was just prevented
From giving the youngest
A fascinating haircut.
After dinner there were a few songs -
A few favorites lovingly butchered -
And Dylan Thomas read “Child’s Christmas”
From beyond a crackling grave.
The night had come on hours before.
The lights were drowsy.
The tree was a thousand years old.
In the last moment before sleep
The blur of the day resolved itself
Into a single image:
A bauble winking among the boughs,
Washed in song,
Reflecting a perfect world.
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