by Chris Dungey
With first light and all through
the bitter day, a dandelion
lint of snow settles. Each
filament gathers dust bunnies
loath to press flat those beneath.
For the first time in a month,
a man stands in a mirror knotting
a tie that has no silk-screen
Santa monogram or carol button.
A neighbor’s dog heralds
an approaching ambulance
down the adjacent street.
Garden statuary of milkmaid
and sturdy yeoman, framed
by stunted limbs of one dwarf
apple, balance drifts
on cast-iron shoulders.
It is now that gifts should arrive
after starlit desert journeys.
But those on the dining table
are just an exchange of sizes
for Bloomingdale’s Online—
a denim dress, a ten,
up from a petite eight
if he had to guess. That all
such tributes should grow thusly
would be his New Year’s wish.