Hard Edges

He had some hard edges, brittle like flint,

  and if he had a heart, he gave not a hint.

Lived in a shack way back in the hills,

  he barely got by, without any frills.

If he spoke at all it was more like a rasp,

  his old torn coat was held with a clasp.

Icy blue eyes that were all bloodshot,

  ruddy red cheeks and a nose full of snot.

He drove an old truck with fenders a-flappin’

  eked out a livin’ mostly from trappin’.

When he came to town, we were all scared,

  and when we looked, it seemed like he glared.

Most of us kids would just run away,

  maybe that is what shortened his stay.

Now our little town was quiet and quaint,

  but somehow we had a sec-er-et saint.

And though it was hard for us to believe,

  no one went hungry on Christmas Eve.

The waif who lived in the bad part of town,

  would get a brand-new toy to end his frown.

At the market store a tab would get paid,

  in back of the church, good words were prayed.

Nobody ever knew, but they wondered who,

  had such a heart, so pure and so true.

One Christmas morning they found the old man,

  frozen just as hard as an old fryin’ pan.

In his pockets were the candies found by our doors,

  wrapped in bright paper from our favorite stores.

They buried him with honors on old Boot Hill,

  we shouldn’t judge others, and I never will.

He had some hard edges, brittle like flint,

  that he was a saint, I had not a hint.

LDT Christmas ‘22

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