Nativity

The donkeys were covered with splinters and snow.
The Gesu bambino could not stay upright
and fell to the camels, who bellowed below
a plaster-of-Paris swart acolyte.
We hemmed and hawed, and we scolded ourselves
and our spouses, who gawked from the windows,
sighed Madonna mi’, while crossing themselves
the Madonna has fractured her halo.

From the lawns of an earnest suburbia sprout
the electrified fruit of the mall
where pendulous prayers on the tough vines of doubt
split open and rot where they fall.
With the heavenly mother asleep
in the grotto behind the azalea shrub,
her halo askew, her memory deep,
her veil hovering over a cherub,

We escaped to the patio roof
with a view of the jets in full flight
The stars were aloof and offered dim proof
that a savior would set the world right
with itself and its concrete shrines.
All we could do was sing madrigals
and pretend to interpret the signs
while grieving the lost (and the) magical.

Oh, mother in heaven, give us this day
to vacuum and polish the floors.
Company's coming—we got codfish to flay —
and struffoli — we oughtta make more.
Give us the strength to snap into place
the card table brackets and legs,
that harbor the tiniest mouths of our race
as chickens watch over their eggs.