Wayne Russell writes

Tis The Season

Christmas lights have been strewn

across suburban houses once again.

Lovers walk hand in hand, each other
on display for all the frigid world too see.

Children scream a banshee's wail, frosty
breaths escape in unison, the old man yells
outside his dilapidated window for silence.

The carolers hit another refrain of "silent night,"
the downtrodden dig through dumpsters for their
Christmas bonuses.

I don't believe in anything anymore, in Santa, in
the bigger scheme of things, in love, in Christmas
lights, or mistletoe, I just don't.