Boxing Day, and inside the shops,
over the shelves and stacks,
the vultures are perching, ogling and gurgling
their way into the coming year, in chaotic unison,
under the sound of greetings and prompts.
The smell of woven cotton and glossy plastic hovers
in the glowing light. The hour is still young.
Today is a good day to pick a jolly tradition’s carcass
clean off the bone and look forward to another year’s
slim pickings. Boxing Day, and the vultures are pecking
their way through tomorrow’s snakes and ladders like
there’s no today, no sorrow to veil, no moment to spare.
Their sadness is dripping down their stretch-marked
cheeks in big, fat droplets of pent-up frustration,
passing for festive joy, tainting the sterile air,
burning holes in the sticky, besmirched floor
on which the shopping venues are propped,
on which the merry stampede takes place in the
name of peace and harmony, but not really.