Mid-November One-Hundred-and-point-three Have yourself A Merry Little Christmas, baby I hardly ever leave the house I wish that I was back In your little red shack I am home from war or some tour of some blurry life To some November world where You're not my girl or my wife Drive to Somerset Mall and my sweat pants fall Move down Square Lake Road In broken code In a trance, all That I could ever need Is to know there's no loss What could supersede Your warm sheets, my Ms. Santa Claus There's the subdivision That my nana lives in, where Christmas lives in basement boxes and 90s sitcom television Mid-November WNIC I'll be home for Christmas Alone with Bing Crosby Drive down two-seventy-five Inside my heated orb Pretend I'm picking up your Absent ghost from the airport But I woke up in Frandor Plaza In the middle of the night There was no one there Just blinding light In fifteen years, Somerset Mall will be Just like them all Summit Place Dump it all to waste I pass the white roadside domes Where the past plays indoor soccer I pass the bright mansion homes Where the dusk collects in lockers I pass the night as it combs Its way into my adult hair I pass the light as the night Stings youth with its sharp air Merry Christmas, everyone I see my world so undone And gone But where to? Oh, you Happy New Year too (Last New Year's you past through here on the way to your new life And in the childhood bedroom of my father's house I made believe you were my wife Your car got stained white in the blizzard world Looking frozen like it had traveled through time through that blizzard world we knew together You left and I can't make coffee without being overwhelmed By the simultaneous reminder and absence of your simple sweetness) Merry Christmas, coffee pot It's beginning to look a whole lot like Christmas