Ram my knees with your red plastic cart
full of cheap plastic shit and I’ll tell us both
of the savior of all human hearts who would
rather I didn’t say shit in front of your child

and that I wouldn’t buy another pair of shoddy
child-stitched slippers for my son’s perfectly warm
feet or this hand-picked selection of organic teas
in a heart-shaped red and green basket. Go on,

ask it, why? That drummer and the sleepy town
both so little, all the wise and averaged sized men
and the seasoned sweet silver of bells might as well
remind us: we all love someone in another town

who doesn’t give one whit about the itemized list
on our credit card receipts. Once, in a fit of worry,
I wrote out every line I loved from her poems.
Bend near, man, like Santa, and I will whisper to you

the one I most wish could come true. Yes? Right? So
beautiful my cracked knee heals at the miracled
thought of her hands. And the O holy night shift arrives
while we trail each other’s tail lights through freezing rain.

Look left, twice, dear God, before you turn into traffic,
all bright red and green, rush home slowly, brother, surely.
No single treasure we own could begin to measure
the presence of a body. Its breath. Our sacred skin.