A December poem

You don't like tinsel, you never have

A waste, spurious plastic, undying

Slowly shredding itself over decades

But we need to make the place look

Festive, it's expected, and we're tired

And running short of ideas

I've not made my peace with it, you say

Draping it over picture frames

Call it a detente, if you must call it anything

I don't mind it, for myself, I've barely 

Thought on, but I love that you have

And reached a rapprochement

It's never an easy thing

Meeting something halfway

More people should, you're amazing