Footprints in melted ice

zigzagging to the wreathed door.

A dead cardinal nailed

to pine cones . Bags of gifts

dropped by the side of the car,

a toy garage's dented box,

cars rolling inside like cubes

in a highball glass . Dad slams

shut the driver's seat, kicks out

piles of newspapers, paper cups.

He slips, slides into a bus,

needles jamming his face,

ankle bent under him, a mad

robot losing equilibrium.

It beeps high-pitched warnings.

My brothers and I race over slush

to the house, where we spell

our fear by shutting ourselves

in bedrooms, hiding under covers.

Slow breathing can't prevent

their detection. Fear shows

red against an impossible

sea of Christmas blue.