Poem: Who Peed on Santa's Knee?

What might Santa bring you...
A toy? An apple? A C-D player?
Oh please.
Why not nice rock.
A Shard of coal delivered from his red felt pocket
Like a pain in your skinny shin.
Selfish children, Santa hates when you pester him
At the malls, peeing on his knee,
Pleading for sweets.
You PUSHED him over the edge
With your expectations of visits
Every year.
Every house.
Excel spreadsheets with names of the naughty
And names of the nice.
He never wanted to slide down your grimy
Chimney for a bite of yo Muther’s Stale cookies.
Our Santy would rather sneak into your room
when you're tucked up snuggly buggly.
Press his bristly face reeeeeal close and---

Everyone knows there’s no such thing
As Santa Claus.

Keep Chewing

No matter what, keep chewing. I imagine this to be a constant banner in the sheep’s thoughts.

They ignore a barrage of frisbees and mini-golfers. Infestations of ice cream wrappers.
Their world is but bloat-bloated ticks
and dingleberries
that even the wind and rain can't tear away.

The sheep squadrons gnaw away at the hillside.
Preferring sweet grass to the coarse goarse
scented faintly of coconuts.
What use a turd-plagued sheep for tropical-scented bushes?
They scratch the tongue.

You walk among them.
Occasionally eating ice cream and attempting mini-golf.
You simply walk past with a bounding hound, hands in pockets, cursing the stiff wind.

One day I decide to join them,
wondering if there is a secret to be learned in endless crouching
and chewing
besides muddy knees and nits.
Perhaps you will then notice them,
us, the truth of me.

For hours I chew. And chew.
Wondering what to say to them:
When will it be time for a break?
What will we wash all this grass down with?
My knees and elbows sink deeper.
Stones poke my bones and my jaw gets sore.

I curl up beside the wooliest of the tribe and fall asleep.
No business brings you walking past.

Tomorrow I will leave them.
I know now that I don‘t belong here.
All this grass gives me gas.