You’ve Got Coal!

Robin J. Bartley

Hello young sport! How do you fly? I am the nail in the mother’s eye! I am that toy that shoots styrofoam by! Don’t you know, I’m a bow!

Hello young squire! How do you do? I am that thing you can find in a zoo! I am the beast they lock in cages just for you! Can’t you see, I’m a chickadee!

Hello young buck! How far do you luck? I am the fur on the back of the truck! I am that thing cuddled in the night! Can’t you fight, don’t you stare, I’m a stuffed bear!

Hello my dear! Why so gloom in this place? Can’t you see the paint on my face? Santa’s Workshop is no land to waste! Why I’m just a clown boy, and we’re all toys in this space!

Except for him, don’t you know? I, the bow, will show you where we cannot go. He lives in a tower, on top of a van. He is much less a person, much less a man.

Yes he sits rather aloof, a guy left on a shelf. Even I, the elf, don’t know him myself.

Look out, here he comes.

Watch out, that thing has no fun.

In the worst case scenario; run.

Yes yes, I am he, I am that thing which burns down the trees. I am the gift when naughty has more vice, when fleas bite on nice. I am the clump left from the bear’s button-rump. I am the sump-sore in the stocking’s toe, the bunion on the fireplace where nobody should go. Can’t you smell? I’m the coal from Santa’s Hell.

Yes we burn, yes we yearn for the fire, yes to all those little words you perspire. Yes to the peaches, to the holiday bread, yes to the man in white, black and red. A fire for consumption is hardly brimstone to be fed, a check on a list for every little head. The heat doesn’t stop when the fire is under the pot. Does the holiday feed? I think not.

Get a clump of this tot.