A Christmas Colloquy

 

Shepherd Lad: I bring to you my oaten flute,

A pile of dried and winter fruit,

A lock of my beloved’s hair,

And videos of Fred Astaire.

Me: Thank you, but I already gave.

I don’t believe the gods will save

Me, if I let you pave my roof

Or flush my pipes with 90-proof

Corn-founded hogwash. Be you gone

Before you’re fired by the dawn.

SL: You have mistaken me. I’m not

Some Adventist whom time forgot.

I’m not the ghost of yokel past.

Here at the end men love me last.

Me: Because nostalgie pour la flock

Replaces your initial stock?

I think not. With the wolf you go

To see the hayrick hung with snow

And blood a part of being fed

On chines of the unrisen dead.

SL: And me on Ginger’s treasure chest.

Me: A stock show.

SL: And a Winter Fest.

Me: It is not so. I cannot be

A man before color TV,

The laurel garland on his brow,

But every tense the here and now.

SL: Your loss. No gain. I pray you, sing

Of ewes beside some purling thing

(As well as Ginger). Be you eld,

And time will slow and measures meld.

Me: Only in dreams, and I awake.

Now here’s a twenty. Please, Sir, take

Yourself away to Grecian shores

Where acorns taste like melted ‘smores,

And all the cattle dance in line.

You are a dream, Sir, but not mine.