I am the festive lodger,

pushed from pillar to post.

Always someone else’s Christmas,

fake smiles to a congenial host.

 

I’m as shafted as the fairy,

stuck on an artificial tree;

outsider looking inwards,

mourning my family.

 

I am the bedsit teen Queen,

as I celebrate alone,

Satsuma tears and Baileys cheers,

and Christmas pud for one.

 

I open up your present,

somewhere you sip Champagne,

a cheap acrylic jumper,

and a card with misspelled name.

 

Noddy screams, ‘it’s Christmas!’

Sinatra croons away,

a miracle on 34th,

saved by Jonah’s cavalry.

 

I am your inconvenience,

you left when I was twelve,

destined to be a lodger,

condemned to festive hell.

 

© Satsuma Tears 11.12.2013

by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

 

Christmas in the post-War United States (Photo credit: Wikipedia)