Advent Poem, by Marcus Goodyear

Every string of electric Christmas is a promise
begun across the ocean in a factory–run
by children maybe–that the light will shine.

You must be ready to make the unexpected
purchase in the midst of all the Jesus buys,
egg nog and rum, port, chocolates, toys and toys.

We conceive our lists by the spirit of something,

not just greed, not just the birth of God,

but mixed motives and sweet teeth
ready to sing and to feast.

The time is near.

Santa rides down Main Street on the back
of a fire truck.

We wave from the sidewalk,
wondering if our house lights will work
when Jesus rides up our street,

following Santa on a donkey.

At last, he is taking a stand,
running for office, stopping the stories,

starting the action.

There is a party at the red house
on top of the hill and Jesus waves to us,
hello, at least, a politician’s good cheer,
but maybe an invitation,

maybe approval of our colored lights,

each gripping the shingles with a plastic bite.

Or we hope too much

and the fourth strand pops the breaker,

burns the fuse in every plug,

leaving us in the dark
holding promises broken across the ocean.

Even so, the party still works like a party should,
drawing people, even people like us
whose houses are shadows between festivities.