Santa has grease under his fingernails
Twas the night before Christmas
and it was cold as executioners steel.
I was stirred from my slumber
by the rattling of metal
rising up beside my bed.
I arose from under cover
in time to see
the figure in shadows
disappear down the hall.
Was it Santa?
I slipped out of bed
and plodded across the floor
my feet crinkling over newspaper
that had been spread there
under the engine of daddy’s
Harley Davidson.
The aroma of a pine tree
oil and gas
wafted all around me
as I sleepily trudged down the hall.
I was heading for the pot
when I noticed a light
softly emanating
through mom and dad’s
slightly open door.
Peeking in I saw to my surprise
dad assembling a bicycle
with a wrench that had been on my floor.
I had envisioned elves building my bike
but here was dad
cranking hard on a nut
while mom pulled more gifts
from under their bed.
I finished my business
and staggered back to my room
tracking oil as I climbed into the sheets
and even though
the revelation sank in
I fell asleep dreaming
of reindeer and elves
and still to this day
when I spy Santa at the mall
I can’t help but draw near
as I pass
hoping one more time
to catch the familiar odor
of Christmas Tree, oil, and gas