Elvis Costello Christmas Tree

It was cold and dark as Christy Clark's ass when we returned to Canada. As we rolled our heavy suitcases through the automatic airport doors on our way to the parking lot I could hear the peyote buttons rattling in their airtight jar. Good thing customs did not check the jar. I may have brought back more buttons than I am permitted under law.

We slid down the icy Christmas light streets home to Steepleton. It is always good to be home, no matter how cold.

In the morning, after far too little sleep, I left Sonja in bed and went for the dog. From the kennel's reception area I could see the Hammer dragging the kennel girl on her tits to me. The Hammer jumped up on me, knocking me and a rack of doggie crap onto the floor. We lay there, the three of us, laughing.

"That's some dog you got there mister," the kennel girl told me.

"Yes. Like an Anarchist just freed from prison," I agreed.

After I paid we went by the river for our welcome home walk. A single white swan was swimming there, its feathers astir in the northeast wind. The Hammer looked at the swan. The swan looked at the Hammer. It was a cold war.

Sonja and the Hammer hugged on the bed when we got home. I went out for the Christmas tree. They were both still there when I got home with the tree.

At the store where I bought the tree Elvis Costello was singing "Radio, Radio." Made me think about seeing him thirty years ago. Black leather jacket, a pocket full of purple hearts. I knew as soon as I heard it I would play Elvis' second record, "This Year's Model," when we string lights on the tree and decorate it with our boxful of Canadian Christmas crap.

Merry Christmas to you Elvis and all the rest of you Canadian, and wish you were Canadian, motherfuckers. Our aim is true.