December was white with the first fall of snow
when Bobby and Sheila got out on the go.
They had whisky, Jäger, eggnog with dark rum,
and a frost of cocaine numbing their tongues.
New crack pipes were handy in pocket and purse—
it was a perfect evening to go from bad to worse.
She said, “I think we need to talk about things,”
and lay down in the snow to work on her wings.
“I’m the angel,” she cried, “that you’ve broken with need.”
He said, “You’ve laid in the snow where somebody’s peed.
“The kids will be home in the morning by ten.
Come on, we’ve a lot of drinking to do before then.
“We can talk about groceries, we can talk about rent,
but you goddamn well know the cheque is all spent.”
So they bickered and fought, smoked all their crack,
and Bobby sold Sheila for needles and smack.
He nodded off late with a tube round his arm,
never smelled smoke or heard the fire alarm.
“That turkey’s finally cooked,” I hear Sheila said,
“I was hoping for jail, but he’s better off dead.
“No Christmas Eve morning was ever so bright
as when Bobby turned himself to a Christmas light.”