3:00 am Christmas,
and your newly divorced
neighbor’s trying to screw
together the last wall of a doll house
for the four-year-old she’s finally
coaxed into sleep,
when your stereo blares
Elvis crooning Blue Christmas again
through the too-thin walls,
and her screwdriver slips,
gashing the tip of her ring finger,
and a small string of blood beads up
just as, in the next room,
the four-year-old resumes whimpering
and wakes the colicky baby,
and the weary mother swears
she’ll kill you for this
and pounds on the plain white walls,
not knowing how, beneath your
exquisitely decorated blue spruce,
your red, red, red Christmas
already drips from the slit on your wrist.
Photo by ZACHARY STAINES on Unsplash
