'Twas a week before Christmas, when all through the malls,
EVERY creature was stirring in shops and in stalls,
With new stockings and dresses and fixing their hair,
The women were buying up bottles of Nair,
The children were bouncing in place in their Keds,
They're topped off on sugar highs filling their heads,
With Mamma's new kerchief in a box on my lap,
I settled on a bench, tired 'nough to nap,
When out in the parking lot there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my seat to see what was the matter,
Away to the entrance I wove through the crowd,
Who were too busy with bargains or screaming out loud,
The street lamps bestrewn through the cars in each row,
Gave a lurid green glow to the objects below,
When what to my blood shot, tired eyes should appear,
But a minivan, gray, eight kids and Dad all in fear,
With a tired, old look so haggard and sick,
I knew in a moment he'd got the short stick,
More rapid than eagles his terrors they came,
And he screamed and shouted, called to them in vain;
“Stop running!, Stop prancing you terrible children!
Be calm, don't act stupid and stay still and listen!
There'll be no climbing at all, nor running in the mall,
There'll be no crying, I don't care if you fall”
As if they'd not heard, like a hurricane they fly,
As I watched his hopes burst I felt for this guy,
So in through the entrance the devils they flew,
In search of their toys with Dad in pursuit,
And then, in a twinkling, I heard a big crash,
Their prancing and pawing had cost Dad some cash,
I got out of the way and was turning around,
Into the mall proper Dad came with a bound,
He paid the mad merchant for the broken wares,
And quickly strode off avoiding the stares,
A tussle and one of the kids flung on his back,
He looked like a peddler with a child in his pack,
His eyes, they were bloodshot and quite a bit bleary
His cheeks were all flushed, his pallor was scary,
His droll little mouth would quiver just so,
And the hair on his head prematurely like snow,
A ragged old list he held tight in his teeth,
“Gifts for Mom” was the heading with lines underneath,
He had a tired face and a pack on his bum,
That he dug in for money to pay for stuff and some gum,
He was drawn and quite dumb not entirely himself,
And I laughed when I saw him take more from the shelf,
A wink of his eye and a glance at the list,
Soon gave me to know or at least get the gist,
He spoke not a word engrossed in his work,
And kept his lips tight 'though the cashier was a jerk,
And laying a finger on each of his kin,
And giving a nod he turned with a grin,
He'd spring for a treat if they'd all get  in line,
And snapped back in step they did like they'd no spine,
But I heard him exclaim as they trudged into the night,
“Happy Christmas to all-- now kids, stop that fight!”     

tags: poetry  

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