The Orange
There’s no snow Christmas mornings in Florida.
You hung your stockings in the sun room so Santa,
confused by the lack of a chimney,
might see them hanging like flayed elves
and know there was a believer inside.
You might get a wiffle ball set for Christmas in Florida.
You might get a skateboard or bike.
And the funny thing about Christmas gifts in Florida:
there’s no snow, it’s not cold, you don’t even need
a jacket to take your toy outside and play.
You might get a remote-controlled car for Christmas in Florida.
A stock car, all white, detailed red.
And thank God you’re living in Florida
where there’s no cold to stop you
from burning down the driveway and street.
They’ve no snow plows, no salt trucks, no blizzards, no ice storms, no yule logs, no sweaters Christmas mornings in Florida.
Just a bunch of children outside of their homes, proud of their hauls, showing off, paying little attention, having fun, being mean, being kids.
Your stock car did donuts quite well in the driveway.
It’s speed and agility cause for envy and greed.
So you sent it from one side of the street to the other
back and forth, quick as that,
while the big kids circled ’round the block on their BMX bikes, new jean jackets, though they really didn’t need them, bunny hops and sad, wicked laughter.
Nothing slows down on Christmas mornings in Florida.
There’s never a sign to mark passing seasons
and the good will, that good, good will
disagrees with the heat and the lush,
tends towards a rushed and chaotic abandon.
Your race car didn’t slow and neither did those bikes.
Neither did that twisted, absent laughter.
You heard those laughs and you knew what they meant, what they mean:
a relapse trigger for the ever-bullied.
Those bicycle tires didn’t care it was Christmas morning in Florida.
And neither did I, I guess.
Looking back over my shoulder, I threw you a half-crazed, crooked-toothed smile.
You stood in your driveway, tears frozen in place (though it’s not all that cold Christmas mornings in Florida)
and I kept on pedaling, half-expecting a chase, to dodge something thrown, a yell, anything but you —
You standing in your driveway, mouth opening and closing,
little fish out of water, mouthing help, wide-eyed, stunned,
uncertain how such a thing could happen Christmas morning in Florida.