Santa’s Walk
of Shame
It’s Santacon in San Francisco.
Fat and skinny millennial Kringles,
slutty elves, rowdy reindeer
pub crawl along Van Ness Avenue
on a rainy Saturday afternoon.
They cram into, spill out
of tiny neighborhood bars.
Board converted buses
festooned with red and green upholstery,
fuzzy white fur headrests,
multi-colored twinkle lights.
By evening, broken bottles,
impressionistic bursts
of technicolor vomit
decorate sidewalks.
Abandoned beards and bells
join downtown detritus.
The following morning,
a hungover, disheveled Santa,
scarlet pants at half-mast,
staggers his walk of shame
through dim light, drifting mist,
back to an angry Mrs. Claus
who seethes in a seedy hotel.
--Jennifer Lagier
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