my father is dead
though in the whimsical world of words
I can resurrect him, not in the raining rays
of the Texas sun, but in the darkness
in his Oldsmobile, on a Christmas Eve
bathed in the lighter lights of the season,
their reflections, rolling over our tinted windshields,
littered our eager eyes, in color
and cacophonous taunting,
“ ‘tis the season, ‘tis the season”

the children are not yet
disenchanted by these chants,
thinking still of presents under the tree
some flickering sense of mystery

I, old enough to shave and see the cords
that feed the mocking lights, catch a lump
in my throat, before it fills my eyes with terrible tears
for I know the car will take us back from whence we came
far from the Plaza where we watch the lights,
to the walls where the colors don’t speak
to a place where one day someone will die
and the lights and all my words
will not bring them back