Peace* Poem by Morgan Michaels

You're a dear man, Larry,
I'm glad to be your friend
And, we two, alone, it's a merry
Christmas I'm wishing you- why not?
For days your tree's been up and blinking dimly,
A bulwark of green against the dark,
Heaving piney exhalations,
And like the meatless
Shell-shards of walnuts rolled out from stockings onto the table
Or zesty rinds of oranges
Scattered un-nattily about,
Ribbons and wrappings are littering
The base, channeling spoils of Christmases past,
And, God willing, yet to come.

Before the fire we sit on scrolled, high-backed chairs.
There, your dear child, Lolly,
Who on chickory swells larger and larger
Each time we meet, lumbers by
Loosed from his cage
Like a breathing stone, appendaged, like a clone
From the age of small dinosaurs-
While jazzy versions of ancient lays
Or bluesy covers of fifty's tunes
Diffuse into the semi-dark,
Though a Bruckner adagio
recently filled the still air
Fruit of the awful study of beauty and complexity!
Urging sentiments of awed cheerfulness and warmth
If only for a moment. And like a man
Who's downed just enough foie
And sipped not too much champagne,
Neither sated nor craving a thing
We are momentarily at peace
And, like Pierrot, content.

Peace....