One thing about getting older, I laugh more.

Oh at myself, of course, echoed in voices

Or seeing me sideways in mirrors. But the world!

I'm all for neighborhood, frontyard and back.

What would we do without it? Let's have more.

Let's make believe together or die separate.

I love it. Come Christmas, I love everyone.

I hang wreaths on the ashman, oilman, postman,

Fruitman, laundryman, and my two telephones.

Children aged fifty-seven I cannot love.

A lump of coal in the Christmas sock to them,

Many a dry eye if a fatal accident befall.

But real people! Nobody funnier than people,

Blunder-fumble-bumbling their way around.

Trying to cover up, they uncover everything.

People always try too hard to be people.

I hurry to hurt them before they can hurt me.

We pretend we haven't made a mess of it all.

Awkward is the word for almost everyone,

Awkward brutally, pitifully awkward, a few

Very young very beautiful simple awkward.

I'm people, too. Especially at Christmas.

I want what I want when I want it, or sooner.

Nine shopping days left. I can hardly wait.

I made a list of what I have: twenty shirts,

Three typewriters, four thousand books,

Six clocks, five jobs, two hands, one brain,

And no more shopping days left. Getting old.

Well, I'll take what I have already, please.

It's a lot to hang on to what you have.

Item, my son, a handsome animal, the big cub.

Item, my wife, every day good to come home to.

Item, poetry, the poems I haven't written yet.

And snow outdoors, heat inside-and people

For this crazy easy middle-aged laughing-at.

And Christmas. In fact, all the holidays.

Let's celebrate all the holidays from now on,

New Year's, birthdays, pay days, April Fool's,

And Christmas! Christmas! I can hardly wait!