The holidays are hard upon me now,
and winter darkness pushes me inside
where media productions show me how
inadequate I am. The facts implied
obnoxiously about familial pleasure,
the instances of love I see portrayed,
all make me take my situation’s measure
and show me up as selfish or afraid.

The days die early now and we are pressed
too close together in our living rooms.
The jingles jar – the parties leave us stressed –
compounding as the end of Advent looms.
The only remedy’s a winter trance
till Saturnalia beckons us to dance.