My tree is still in pieces,
the cookies are unbaked,
my cards still in the box,
Christmas mood cannot be faked.
I’m tired and feeling old,
I can’t pretend I’m jolly.
I’d like to arm myself
with Scrooge’s stake of holly.
Crazed, near-sighted drivers,
shoppers all phone-zoned,
news of inhumanities,
life bewailed, bemoaned
tarnish all the tinsel,
make carolers sing flat;
I need to find a rabbit
to pull out of my hat,
something made of magic
that laughs along with me
even though to others
we’re total mystery.
Aha! It’s just the thing
to make the dismals better:
from my haute couture collection,
a rousing Christmas sweater!

When I was in junior high, I wanted blue jeans. The in-crowd wore them. My mother would have none of it: blue jeans were not what proper girls wore. Wait. Did I say I wanted to be proper? I wanted to be cool! Mom and I had this divergence of opinion all the time, and thus did I learn to live with not being cool. Therein lies the explanation for my bewilderment at why Christmas sweaters are so much maligned. They are deemed ugly, uncool. I like my Christmas Duck sweater! It’s my mother’s fault.
One may argue for a goose, and I grudgingly concede this might indeed be a Christmas goose, but you know my feelings about geese, dear reader. Ergo, it’s a duck.
With thanks to Susan Rushton for the photo of my mood!