Christmas Rush

Okay, I wait until the very last minute, more or less, to buy
the Christmas gifts.  I delay, I put off, I procrastinate to be sure
and then, like a flurry inside a tornado wrapped in a pacific cyclone,
I race the clock I buck the crowds I trip the final day shopping fantastic.
But that is me, civil to the culture of hurry, reverent to the mien of later on.

Then what do I get when I open the firewood and light the kiln of
leg-shaking, of off-my-ass it’s about time for retail procurement
with this, that and the other?  It is the custom of us with such
convention to appreciate the rush within, to revel in arroyos
of ever enclosing time and, with verve, face down the
deadline for the sake of added energy, for that
trumpeting of excitement as Noel’s clock
ticks and we as mere mortals tempt it
with our chins jutted, our faces smug.

Santa eyes us narrowly as we bound like caffeine laden kangaroos
from store to store, the urgency of scurry and the language of
dash prominent on our drawn countenances, an expeditious
air about us as we flail in final scramble.  Little does he
know we are feeding like ravenous wolves on the
carrion of time-ticks, on the meat that are hours
and minutes slain by reality‘s steadfastness.

We do this to ourselves,
(and I take liberty to speak for others),
as we are kerosene torches with only so much
fuel hastening in the dark while the midnight hour approaches. 
This is our event, once a year, to pressure ourselves like Olympians
racing the indifferent stopwatches held by Yuletide holiday.

Elbow to elbow, shoulder to shoulder, the push, the squeeze,
the throng of humanity in manic aberration, the tearing,
the reaching, the war that ensues on the merchant’s
turf by us who, earlier, waited around sipping
Pina Coladas as those December days
went slip, slip, slip, and we just
shrugged and grinned.

We are independent, studious, cool; we are edged
with a keen perception of deadline, we are knee-deep
in the shoals of the time’s final shopping moments.  I like
being so described, since it is art form for me to balance
on the precipice of the eleventh hour with ready
credit playing beat the clock on Christmas Eve.


40 Lines
Writer’s Cramp Winner
12-18-15