Incorrigible

I’d wait for you to leave, 
and then I’d open 
my Christmas gifts. 

Sometimes it was barely 
December. You 
were the diligent type, 

shopping for so many. 
You loved a tree 
with the future beneath it,
 
that promise of joy, 
the paper and ribbon 
like sunlight on water. 

My deception came easily. 
We lived a quarter 
of a mile from the CIA, 

and I fancied myself 
an operative. I’d 
try out a new toy and then 

carefully rewrap it, 
feigning surprise 
on Christmas day.
 
(“A little over the top,” 
you’d later say. 
“No child has ever
 
seemed so happy.”) 
This year, I’ll open your 
gift, that final box— 

I know what’s inside!— 
on the morning 
you’d want me to.

Ralph James Savarese | Pinsetter
Contents | Mudlark No. 82 (2025)