Playing Santa Claus
by Walter J Wojtanik
It smells of mothballs,
Red velvet with soot stained fur.
It looked much newer
when it fit better. It was
much redder when it was handed down.
But, the bells still jingle,
a sound that soothes and placates,
it resonates from rooftops
and hillside, taking it in stride.
Taking pride in the mantle, a duty
to take the beauty of a season
and spread it far and wide
all in a one-night ride.
I know what is expected,
I have never rejected this position.
It is a terminal condition,
I would expire without Christmas.
Even if I retired, it wouldn’t be the same.
It is a game I play every year
from way up here in the frozen North.
I don the garb and slip into my routine, of course.
I mean, who WOULDN’T want to play Santa Claus?
Walter J Wojtanik has been writing poetry longer than dirt. Walt’s
collection “DEAD POET… Once Removed” has recently been released. He’s returned
to basics; writing poetry for poetry’s sake and steps away from what he calls
“full contact competitive poetry. Find him at Through the Eye’s of a Poet’s Heart