
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)

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