Toutes Les Choses Rouges (All Things Red)

dusk drifts down as we three
arm-in-armed with pinot vino
waft up the whaka and begin our
gluten-free strawberry trance, with

paisleyed Arthur and his horse
in the ceiling sprinkling its thick
equine shadow of maggots on the floor, with

long-haired Arthur meeting a
yellow-jerseyed author on a woollen-stranded
bridge over troubled waters, with

published Arthur and his heady word plays
meandering lines of crossings-out
add-ons and jingle jumbles, with

resplendently red-Doc'd Arthur chanting
soothing mantras of polyester polyester polyester one
and his one-liner perfect girl
who isn't lost at all

and my navel-gazing
turns to star-gazing

clasping the tail-end of four-day-old
Bah Humbugness and squishing
it all back into its brown tattered box
now tightly tied, with

strings of polyester polyester polyester one
adorned with renewed visions
of the weekend's excavation and lighting of
the Christmas tree and eighty
soon-to-be red Rudolphed candy canes, with

starry candles and childhood wonder
and silent night
holy night.