He is a boring man,
wears the same 3 shirts in a cycle,
Eats the same curried mackerel
from a can each day.

Was it a bad past experience,
Is this PTSD?
I’ve never known and I will never know.
That’s all it is to me.

But at 10 o clock sharp,
On the bitter 24th,
He puts on a red suit
And heads out the door.

Should I question what he does?
No, I fear for the answer,
the extent of his problems
Exceed comet and dancer.

He’s coming home,
And as I pray,
The smell of bleach and dead meat
Sleigh-ride my way.

He scares me; his eyes are dead,
Drinking whisky, and Looking straight ahead at a black and white
Picture of my niece,
Pounding into my flesh before drinking another.