[Author's Note: This was written for Chapter Three of my story "Blood On Our Sneakers." It's supposed to be part of a song, but it's more of a poem, isn't it?]

[Styrofoam & Snow]

The snow was falling like Styrofoam
Out of packages Christmas morning
As you were mourning the dead man
You'd received them from
How long have the dead had this tradition
To give presents after their deaths
With hands made of ink on paper
Writing your name before your address
Trying to compensate for forgetting you
While they were still alive
Even though you're the one forgetting
That they were ever alive
Some day you'll believe they never were
I'll be there with you - doubting them
Then we'll turn to the Christmas tree
We'll doubt each other
Standing next to one another
Then we'll doubt ourselves
As our children's packages rain Styrofoam like snow