Christmas

Pablo, in his Chef’s jacket, had taken pictures

Of the food presentation, the table fully set

And the people gathered for the feast. 

It needed only a pontifical blessing.

No prayer was offered

As the host held strong opinions on the subject.

The opulence of the scene

Would not have comforted St Francis.

If there was a conversation 

That did not cover the mandatory routine topics

It escaped my notice.

Perhaps that was the obligatory blessing.

I’ve done it a thousand thousand times.

Acknowledging luck understates your perspicacity,

And is as effective as knocking on wood.

Tonight all genuflected at Fortune’s door.

Surely as host it fell upon me 

To steer the conversation into

Subjects that might matter to my guests.

Instead I chose to reflect.

In New York by mid-December

We seem to lose our cynical edge.

Something resembling a hesitant smile

Might be found on a passing commuter’s lips.

Southern California offers no equivalent,

But folks here might argue,

They, or is it we, do not understand seasons,

And can’t imagine a mid-December smile.