A colonoscopist of brick, he’s come to ream us out,
clear winter’s cinders, summer’s flying squirrels
and young raccoons with Santa fantasies.
The traditional top hat, but iridescent plumes, hawk
and cock, sprout from the band. A dandy’s eyes
and crinkly beard are gray from ash and age.
He decries our fireplace doors – trickster glass leaks heat –
ignores the mismatched andirons, adjusts the damper plate,
says pine logs are okay if dry, saves my pitched manuscripts.
He wears the leer of men who peer up more
than sooty shafts. I pay no mind, for like the hearth,
I know: when we no longer burn, we die.
– Elisavietta Ritchie
