The Bad Boy On Christmas Day
The Bad Boy on Christmas Day
A family holiday,
they called it -
my sister being the first
to report on the coal in my stocking;
black, dirt-dusty and crude.
Like chalk it used my hands
as a blackboard,
branding me a black sheep,
no present for me
from Santa -
bad boy.
My sibling’s fingers
tore open their Santa gifts:
the teeth of a hungry pitbull
shred the digestable
until sick.
In that cool living room,
of winter air I watched,
breathless, uncringing,
leaving to change my clothes;
tee-shirt, jeans, black leather jacket.
Dreams of a white Christmas
made a prison-break,
black the new white.
If this is what made the Fonz so cool,
so it would be with me too -
cool, black and bad.
Someday I’d ride out of that house -
Passing lanes know no regrets.
This Christmas day, I’d wear
a scar, carry it to the front door –
weathered and in need of a new coat,
lead paint chipped and chipping –
getting the bird out the downstairs fridge, where
A red, 10-speed Schwinn leaned and tagged:
“From: Santa, MERRY CHRISTMAS!”
The rest of the family laughed, shouting,
“SURPRISE!”-
So there it was, official, on a tag with frostbite,
a gift, a bike, from Santa:
red, chrome, quiet,
and too cold and snowy
to ride today.
“Surprise!”
I don’t know either: why
St. Nick is so sneaky
nor every Christmas,
snow or no,
the Lowrider is fired up,
taken out of the garage -
riding it like it was stolen,
Protected by the pitted chrome
of an angel’s bell -
this machine, these tribal metallic flames,
red and roaring; the chrome,
black leather bags and bugs -
all do what the 10-speed couldn’t –
Ride this day,
Christmas-
With coal in my saddlebags,
leather armoring my torso
and appendages,
a brain-bucket on my head
and the moisture
of Winter’s air
cool upon my face.

