No Room

Through this sludge-week before your lit Yuletide – this path of slopped rain sucks hard on my boots

as I traipse in my circles of the dog-dug conditions – through which I'm set fast by your barked-out orders –

Only return home with a well-cut one – which will not then tip – not ’til the twelfth day –

Such held superstitions – erected by lost Popes – were claims on short nights over our pagan ways –

I'd rather keep cold gods from the warm living room – I hold no love for your desiccated tree