Crimbo Lines

those weeks before Christmas
that dragged on like years
of dark Ready Brek mornings
in the thick December fog
before catalytic converters
that we’d cut through
pretending our breath
was cigarette smoke exhaled
on the way to the schoolyard
to boast our earnest belief
that upon Christmas morning
those fantasies we’d seen
in the back of your auntie’s
Autumn and Winter edition
of Grattan’s catalogue
would bulge the pillowcases
tied to the end of the bed


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