Dear Santa

Don't be surprised or confused by how thin is the envelope conveying my note this year.  For I really do have a lot to ask.  Pour yourself a drink.

We trimmed our tree last night, the wife and I.  Yes, the kids were there from the many Christmas trees before.  All the bicycles, watches, gloves, toys and stocking candy from years gone by ... oh, but you know about all that.

And when we were done, the Mrs. and I plugged in the light stringer, turned off the overheads, and the  world once again brightened in the night.  Later, we let it all go dark, and turned in.

Today, the tree and I awoke before the sun, and the morning paper thudded on the porch as I prepared for work.  It carried two stories on consecutive pages: one reported that the proposal to ask millionaires to stop being so greedy and return to carrying just a smidgen of the tax burden they shouldered back when the country worked much better had been dropped, and the other indicated that 1 in 2 of our population now live in poverty or subsist on low incomes.

I crossed the room and let the tree go dark again, then sat down to write this request.  Santa, this year make it stop. Please.