Christmas Shopping, 1956

Smudges in the streetside snow,
Root beer ice everywhere we go.
Flaccid air that cuts to the core,
Store music is a generic bore.

Buckle boots with buckles broke,
To keep out slush are a jingle joke.
A driver in a Christmas rush
Splashes us with Yuletide slush.

Christmas shopping checkout squeeze:
A world of wet boots, butts, and knees.
Suddenly, we’re with my dad,
To carry all the gifts we had --

Out to our waiting chariot,
Adrift in slush-filled parking lot.
We’re in the back seat, looking down,
We can’t get up or look around.

My mom arrives and dad gets out,
We hear a moan, a cry, a shout.
They enter our wet biodome,
Silence reigns the whole way home.

We haunt our cold, damp, metal jar,
Til’ mom and dad unpack the car.
We march into the house, a mess
Of flapping boots and slushiness.

Supper comes (and quickly went),
A face wash and some Pep-so-Dent.
Soon we all are sent to bed...
Nothing asked. Nothing said.

Mick McKellar
December 2023