F Hole

 

F Hole

 

 

There’s an F shaped hole in the Christmas tree,

a guitar shaped hole where some love should be,

and if he squints, he can see it right through,

not that peering is anything he’d normally do:

tantamount to careless, as in lacking care,

scrutinising something that clearly isn’t there.

Oh, it’s balanced, a give and take, yin and yang,

a dualism in sheathed swords, woman to man,

where years of strife led to tacit understanding,

rehearsed reasons, the season of Angels landing,

a pax, like grandson’s soft blanket, cheek high,

look up not back, here’s snowfall from the sky.

Has something fucked up this Christmas card?

Should be laughing out loud; it’s biting too hard,

if it wasn’t so commonly tragic, so depressing,

sucks out magic through straw-men blessings,

and look, here’s hampers for Ken, cards for Jack,

piled under the tree, the presents are racked.

And he would pluck that promised bass and extol

second comings, if it wasn’t for that fucking hole.