Christmas Eve

by Brett Rutherford

After the cemetery walk

I went to the edge of town,

passing the sign that said

"Welcome to . . ."

There was a tree

beneath which nothing

but new underwear

awaited, last-minute

buy from Woolworth's.

My Mother and

the Evil One

would reel home

from the Moose Club

past midnight.

By noon the fights

and screaming

would overwhelm

the Merry Christmases.

I waited.

For a car, for a lean

and hawklike stranger,

the one who, it was said,

would carry you off.

I vowed this year

not even to enter

the tobacco-smelling

room with the tinsel-

tottering tree. So far

I had avoided it.

All I wanted

for Christmas

was my picture

on cartons of milk

beneath the headline

MISSING CHILD.