A Pop-Up Christmas Poem

Twas the night before Christmas, and all across the yard . . .
The dead leaves were stirring, for the wind blew quite hard.
Our pop-up camper was safely packed away,
Its contours shone dimly in the wet driveway.

While inside the house our family stayed dry,
Watching old movies as Christmas drew nigh.
Our daughter stayed up as late as she could.
Will she ever get tired? Her parents wished that she would.

Once bedtime finally tucked her away,
The work of stocking stuffing prolonged our day.
The lion’s share of gifties went straight to the kid,
And I swear, she got more than I ever did!

Then Jo went to bed as I stayed up later,
Which has been the norm since I started to date her.
Yet now I had still one more present to wrap,
Not that we needed to get any more crap.

The package arrived just a few hours before,
Since Macy’s didn’t stock this gift in their store.
It was a small houndstooth London Fog duffel,
And I hoped that the styling wouldn’t cause a kerfuffle.

My main consideration in choosing this was size,
Though a 70% discount made it an attainable prize.
This bag could hold two days of clothes with no sweat,
Plus a few other things, so she’d be all set . . .

But the best part was that it fit just like a glove
Into our camper’s bedside cabinet, plus a USB Hub,
a small hamper, and a comparable bag for myself.
All four will nest together with the aid of a shelf.

My thinking was simple: before we’d depart,
We’d pack the bags full and then fly like a dart.
While camping our luggage would live in its space,
So we wouldn’t scatter clothes all over the place.

The pop-up is small, thus there’s no room to spare.
But a pair of these bags could squeeze under a chair.
I hoped she’d agree they were a solid investment.
We don’t want our camper to look like a tenement.

I dropped hers into an oversized bag,
fluffed tissue on top and completed the tag.
While the package was small, the gift loomed conspicuously,
Making its neighbors look comparatively tiny.

But just then I heard the pitter-patter of feet,
and an expression of claws at a pretissimo beat.
Startled, my brain wandered up to our roof,
where I imagined the clomping of a reindeer hoof.

Our Christmas tree was to the right of our chimney,
It was perhaps just big enough for a sliding Santa shimmy.
But we weren’t using it cause we had to clean the flue.
If Santa asphyxiated in our fireplace, then what would we do?

The horror of the thought gave me quite the fright.
I imagined doing police interviews all through the night.
Would they blame it on neglect? Would they not see the irony?
Also, did Santa have diplomatic immunity?

Then I came to my senses as our shih-tzu appeared,
coming to see if our dinner crumbs were cleared.
Still I looked out the window and, I have to say,
The outline of the pop-up looked a bit like a sleigh.

As for my own gift, it was a season of fun:
The pop-up was my Red Ryder BB Gun.
Of the restoration’s outcome I had no doubt,
Though I’ve already almost shot my own eye out.

But my real gift was going to be time with the gang,
A reason to camp and a nice place to hang.
Cause despite our exertions, when push comes to shove,
The most important part of a pop-up . . . is love.

Merry Christmas!