A Christmas Cry

So this is Christmas,
said the man on the television
who sold you the trees, the lights,
the Styrofoam angels with the branches
between their legs,
and gifts from the heart, factory sealed.
Is this Christmas?
The cry of a working man
with calloused hands
often washed, seldom clean.
He's just a human being
with human dreams:
power,
wealth,
beauty,
success, sex
and love. Have we forgotten
what a heart was?
If I could tear mine out
and show it to you,
would it do any good
or would you price it?
Or donate it to science
as a tax write off?
Who knows Christmas?
Surely not the middle class nobody,
whose objective is to be
better than the lower class nobody.
Taking pride in his latest fashions
and his newest car
for which he worked so hard
to serve himself and only himself
and he's not a servant of God,
surely a servant of man.
Well then, what is Christmas?
The Santa Clauses with charitable causes,
you paid for praise and tribute engraved
on the stubs you saved
on the alcohol
that made you tall
and left you small
with no room to crawl,
no room to crawl,
just enough to fall.
So bow to your trees
and give thanks,
for you have not yet felt
the wrath of God.