It was actually snowing an Christmas Eve.
Snug, insular, and fitting.
I hummed Joy to the World
as I hung the last of my hand-made paper ornaments
in the otherworldly home of my cell,
which if nothing else was warm.
A passing guard noticed what I was doing and,
the righteous vengeance of his employment offended,
decided to correct my attitude in his spirit of the season
by searching my cell.
As he poked around and threw things about,
his yuletide carol sang out
"You can't have this, that will have to go, ho ho ho"
while he crumpled and crushed my decorations
in his indignant exception,
and confiscated my soap-carved Christmas tree
I'd sprinkled with green and red glitters.
With triumph in his eyes and spiteful glee in his smile,
he told me that he was writing me up for cell violations
and wished me a Merry Christmas.
I got a lump in my throat the size of a piece of coal,
because I knew what he was doing and I couldn't stop him;
he was stealing the little boy's Christmas.
He knew the boy was the only one that really still cared.
As the boy wept silently at the unfairness of it,
I killed him because I loved him
and buried him forever.
The guard went home after his shift justified,
probably kissed his wife under the mistletoe,
opened some gifts with his children,
drank some eggnog,
then settled down for a long winter's nap.
I went to bed and laid awake all night,
his malicious grin in my stocking
and visions of his dead family dancing in my head.
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