The Aftermath of Christmas

The day after Christmas

when all through the house

are remnants of dinner

and a very upset mouse.

No cheese and no crackers,

pate or foie gras,

I’ll settle for chutney,

and that curried fried rice.

But what you have left me

is a gastronomical disaster

of goat cheese and cranberries

and that horrid fried platter.

I’ve combed through the pantry,

the sub-floor and sun-room,

the out-house and attic,

there’s nothing but boredom.

It’s been years of tradition

the day after Christmas

leftovers are left

for me and the missus.

But no, not this year,

I was not on your A-list,

overlooked and forgotten,

I’m left working the room.

I see wisps of string cheese

still in a twist

just like my insides

and my brainier bits.

This is a kill-joy,

a letdown for sure,

remind me to tell you

if you do this again,

I’ll be packing my bags

and leaving for sure.

Calvin says, “A rhyming mouse? Are you serious? Where is the little bugger so I can swallow him whole.”