"This is not a book to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force." - Dorothy Parker

Santa in a White Subaru



Santa in a white Subaru
A new, pristine Subaru with a dealer’s label in the window
In the middle of a perfect seventy degree California winter day
Ran the stop sign at Harvey and Faculty.

Santa looked thin
Stunted, round shouldered behind the wheel.
I acknowledged this young version of the icon,
Stifling a warning shout out of respect. His cotton
Batten beard and mustache didn’t make him seem elderly.
Santa brushed by, raising a mitten, just missing my car,
Rolling into the crosswalk inches from a baby stroller,
His off-white, skuzzy glove snagged in his fake beard.
Does elderly mean wise, or was he only giving me the finger?
Santa faded into the low-angled sun without hitting anyone
But I lost an opportunity at witty repartee.

Where Candlewood becomes Market Street, a black Saturn station wagon
Boasted a vanity license plate announcing “Lil Poet.”
Lil like in Lil Abner (Does anyone beside me miss Al Capp?)
Now why had I never considered that poets came in sizes?
That was as much of a surprise as discovering how much sand has run out. 

Daylight Savings Time costs the afternoon most of its sunbeams.
Cars with headlights off are endangered and endangering.
No longer the rebel, I click on my seatbelt before closing the
Car door. I’m ready for Santa’s second coming. Is he ready for me?


Rhoda Greenstone