Prose Poem: The Big Guy's List

 

I work for the Big Guy.

You know; the one at the North Pole.

Naughty and nice, and all that jazz.

I've been undercover since last March,

making a list, double checking it.

Who's wearing a mask

and who ain't.

You think the Big Guy 

isn't concerned about the Pandemic?

You maybe think he's all ho-ho-ho

and jolly belly shaking, with no 

Weltanschauung?

Jeeze, if you're thinking that --

what can I say? You're a jamoke.

Here's how it's going down Christmas Eve:

There's been a hundred of us working undercover

for the past nine months -- we send in our lists

this week and the computer geeks compile

and extrapolate and all that jazz,

then hand the Big Guy the hard drive of the 

Winners and Losers

And, confidentially, the list of Losers

is awfully long. 

Mostly male.

Mostly Republican.

And mostly under the age of fifty.

Dumb-dumbs, to a man. 

Me, I really don't care about the schmoes

who don't get anything under the tree this year.

They're the same ones who don't believe in a 

vaccine either -- 

So they'll mostly be pushing up daisies

come next August.

I won't be crying any river over 'em.

The Big Guy already has us prepping

for next year's op --

Still guzzling fossil fuel 

with a Dodge Durango?

Naughty.

Driving a Tesla 3?

Nice. 

Get the picture?