Chocolate boys pick
plantations clean of red ripe pod those
skinny Christmas elves reach over reach
each a talent scout pick that Mr Miacca delivers
buggers and shuns, fresh recruits
taken for finger and thumb
far from their home sweet Santa circle.
Roused numb from his fever dream
mercy sleep where he hugs his mama’s
porridge bowl spoon that scrapes over scrapes
empty and in the sweaty equatorial waking
would fill his belly with those bitter beans.
Beans for the chocolatier
who presses sweet molded Christmas elves
neatly foiled in red net Santa stockings
each handed free at the local hardware
with every customer’s purchase.
Run run run as fast as you can
You can’t blame me
I’m the chocolatier, man!