DARK YULE

Coal in your stocking you could bear,
but this? No stocking at all.
You hung it up last night; you’re sure of it.

Mother, father, huddle nervously together as you
yank each present from below the tree,
grab the tag, blink, and
toss it aside: not yours, not yours, and on it goes —
until, defeated in the center of the cyclone,
you raise tear-blinded eyes to the pair above,
one question scratched in your face, unspoken, unneeded.

The man clears his throat, and offers only this:

“Who are you?

And will you please,
please,
put down that gun?”