Nothing heralds the arrival of the month of forced joy better
than binge-watching Hallmark Christmas flicks—only slightly
toned down by a reserved immersion in Russell and Hitchens
during the commercials—with all the remarkably irrelevant
characters in the spectacle of self-inflicted sorrow that some
call the holidays. After all, even a die-hard atheist like myself
deserves his guilty pleasures.
Sometimes I feel like Mr. Linea, always surprised
by the abrupt end of the line and yet chasing birds
away from the twittering machine mercilessly
hanging in my bedroom full of silhouettes.
And while each fight may seem a bit superficial,
all the previous ones were won with relative ease.
In fact, all I had to do was check every morning
if I still knew how to breathe in and out, casually
count the heartbeats left until the last one,
and indulge in a few other guilty pleasures.
I can’t remember the last time I tasted marzipan,
or anything as sweet, for that matter.
Sugar has become one of those guilty pleasures
I can’t afford anymore. I envy the time I could eat
whatever I wanted and as much as I wanted,
and everything burned off without a trace in my waist.
I guess that’s age for you. But it’s not all bad.
There are things that only came with age, like the fact
that the all-consuming greed for new is finally gone.
I’ve learned patience and appreciation for the moment.
And back then, I would never have understood the words
of Professor Falconer. Now I know—I’m a single man too.
hidden pilcrow 