Every year, mom and dad wait for Santa, waking
from slumber at midnight to greet the new day.
Once we were old enough they'd wake us as well,
telling us: this year Santa will come, this year
we might get gifts, and we'd all stare at the empty tree
come the dawn, listening to my father's debates
with himself during the night, if Santa delivered
past midnight or not, and my mother saying no,
wanting to get to bed; we had red eyes, not noses
(unless we caught a cold), but Santa has never come.
I am hoping he comes to my children, because I
intend to be a better parent than my father ever was.
I will sneak gifts to my neighbours, having them write
messages from Santa -- I only hope I won't be shunned
for telling them without words that Santa hates us.