That chilly December morning…
.
I watched you across the lane,
huddled on the front porch stairs
in an old t-shirt and shorts, staring
at a plastic Poseidon’s trident
.
On the face of it,
another chintzy gift
from a wayward Santa -
I’d bet on it – the
boozing asshole who’d left
you and your young son alone,
exposed, and powerless to cope
.
And whether
I liked it or not,
I couldn’t help seeing
you there despairing as
a foreshadowing of what
the New Year might end up
being for you and your boy
.
Having been crushed
by loveless indifference,
I could see tears
on your cheeks
glistening like adamant's
as you puffed purposefully
on a cigarette, and on the
step below you, down
between your legs,
half-tipped over,
a cup of
quickly cooling cocoa
was browning what was left
of the snow and your bare toes
.
Lying beside you,
a collection of
unused cards
lay scattered about
.
Gingerly, you held each
to your cheek for a moment,
and then sorted through
the dozen or so
mismatched envelopes
hoping to find one that worked
.
Watching you there,
alone and struggling,
I could feel
your heart breaking,
as you tried each card
with each envelope, and
realized that nothing fit…
.
© Richard Lloyd Cederberg
12/2025
.
“Pure and genuine religion in the sight of God the Father means caring for orphans and widows in their distress and refusing to let the world corrupt you.” James 1:27
.
THE PORTRAYAL SERIES: Poetic insights concerning my immediate family, detached observations, and old friends (alive or dead). This series will also address certain of the actors, artists, musicians, and writers I worked with in college, or professionally, that were influential (in one way or another) in shaping the man I am today.
          A NEW RACE OF HuMANS