It’s Christmas again without you.
I am far now from where I grew—
those cobbled streets under my shoe,
“wrapping paper, five for a pound,”
called by street traders
on Moore and Henry Street too.

You are not around.
No lunch at Arnott’s,
no waiting at a door—
Eason’s,
or Clery’s chimes.
Your feet are getting sore.

The cheap plastic smell of toy dinosaurs
I begged you all day to buy.
Your kindness was repaid
by a mind set alight—
that latex T-Rex tipping my juice
into chips and pie. Oh my.

“Wrapping paper, five for a pound,” again,
as we pushed through winter crowds,
searching for the car at the Ilac,
feet cold and wet.

How I miss the warmth
of a cold day—
Christmas shopping
with you.