A Stick of a thing,
they fought. Edna’s fingers
drummed harsh on Orson’s cheer.
She said, “Lover, let’s be so Charlie Brown.”
“I’m chilled. Let’s eat.” He said,
thinking how she’d forget and sleep.
Turkey hours later, he unboxes
ornaments to the hum and scrape
of her snores, weaves spare branches
to bloating with tinsel, bulbs. Hums Barry
Manilow so low he can barely hear.
Then a final injection-mold plastic Santa
in royal blue (makes Edna cross annually).
Orson decorates Edna last, he
lays a sprig of milstletoe near her chin.
Edna slogs nog. Orson brushes
oil on something oven-ready.
He sips holiday microbrew.
Does not consider details.
Slurry, she asks, “What’s your
Orson swells. Choked, he mimes
he cannot say. Edna serves
beers, studies hers without
noticing, waits. A timer breaks
her wait. Orson moves about
He forks prok, a bit of kraut
points it in offer to Edna,
“For Health.” While she chews,
she considers Orson’s two full beers.