or "Christmas Present" following "Christmas Past"
by Jen Hunt, from the archives
Now say it's the eleventh hour and it's your doorbell
and you don't recall ordering anything online lately
but you're sure all the vacuum salesfolk are in bed
so you answer.
Let's say it's so close you can smell it,
but the thing is marked
--Jeez aren't you just about dying to know--
it's marked
C.O.D.
(What currency does God take anyway?)
You know how easy it is to get taken,
still you feel compelled to take it
there's just that little problem of those red letters
Spilling C.O.D. all over the thing.
So you search your wallet,
but find it
Empty
Scrapping the come-back-tomorrow
You find yourself thinking what-the-hell
and grabbing--
Surprising even you
with how criminal you could be
(and that's not the half of it)
Then you pause,
crouched against your bolted door,
contraband in hand
Save for the tearing of paper
and your own guilty sighs
you would've heard
heaven leap
Thank God
whoever sent it is
a Mind Reader
a Gambler
and More--
C.O.D. = Christ On Delivery
