One of these days
I’ll get around to it.
Every Christmas

for twenty three years
it has been my “thing”.
A tradition that

insinuated itself
into my yearly yule
routine. Grown daughters

home for the night
wide-eyed as they used to be.
Innocent as I’d like them

to remain. “Believers” still.
And as all and the mice
assume a non-stirring

posture, I bide my time.
Waiting for every last one
to achieve dream stage,

sugar-free sugar plums
not withstanding. In the
silent night I creep

having donned the outfit
every year for twenty three.
Me, my bag, my scratchy beard.

No one sees what they don’t know.
For the night my cover is secure.
I am the man. I am Santa.

One of these days, I’ll get
around to it. I’ll stop
wearing the suit and slinking

through a dimly lit Christmas Eve.
Pass on the tradition.
One of these days. But not today.