The box came on time
and I signed for it
with a shaking hand,
a broad smile.

Under a brightly lit tree,
I peeled back cardboard flaps
and sorted through a sea
of Styrofoam beads.

I took hold of a wife
by the shoulders, lifted her
up and over the edge.
I snapped off all the plastic tags,
shifted a lever, and watched her
waddle about the room.

Then I reached back in,
found a son on a tricycle.
I wound him up and watched
as he pedaled across the floor.
His wooden head turned smiling
side to side, perched neatly
on a dowel.

Next, a daughter.
I pulled her, shining,
out from the tissue and tape.
I installed batteries
correctly, flipped a switch
and watched her crawl about
on flat palms,
knees at right angles.

Christmas night, I put my kids on shelves,
stood my wife in the corner of the room.
I knelt down before bed,
for the first time in years.
I said thanks for my family, I vowed
to take up church again, and tennis.