I tune in too late to catch the start but get enough of the
broadcast to know I have no yet missed Santa, and imagine what he might say if
I got onto his lap (the say I did at 3 or 4 or 5) and told him what I really
want in my Christmas stocking, the image of long legs in nylon too intense, as
I sit in front of the TV set and watch, wading through the parade of bands and
floats and character blimps, my brain painting obscene scenes with Mickey Mouse
and his girlfriend, and wonder what Santa’s helpers (dressed in tights so tight
I need on imagination to imagine what’s under it all) do in that workshop up
north, keeping themselves warm through the winter months in ways Santa would
not approve, the announcer telling me the tiny details, such as where this particular
participant comes from, yet nothing intimate enough to keep off my craving for
when the big man comes and I get to confess my deepest desires, needing to get
warm the way his elves do, with the one person I know Santa won’t leave under
my tree, stockings or not, choosing to give me coal instead.
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