New poem herein inscribed: love is, there, not, you tell me

But It Is [Working Title]

Every so often a blogger should write a poem right into her blog.
If the blogger is a “poet” pressure’s on.
It better be a good poem.
A good poem offers a moody rumination on life.
And wears white gloves.
I used to on Easter Sundays.
Palm Sundays too.
They were quite white, my little gloves.
I would tamp them at each “V” between fingers.
Later I would tamp cigarettes.
Am I a good person?
Compared to Stalin who is responsible for a minimum of
60 million deaths or Hitler
who organized 10 million deaths not to mention
causing millions of his countrymen and women’s
demise in battle, compared to those two,
I should be beatified.
Alas, the world does not stand me against a wall,
mark my goodness and compare it with
Stalin’s or Hitler’s.
The world thinks I’m a regular person who once had
a chance of being good in that way religions claim
we all did until we got free willy nilly with our time.
What are you going to do;
destiny is destiny.
Tomorrow is Christmas Eve.
I’m thinking today I’m exempt
from itemizing Commandment-breakage.
Tomorrow night my mom will lay runners on the big table
my father built and set out the Smörgåsbord.
Neither of them are alive.
I don’t want to go back in time.
It would be nice to meet up with them, now we’ve all had
a chance to reconsider.
They already know I have learned to love.
They are two people I have learned to love.
Everyone in my family is a saint, really.
Beatify us.  Even if you don't,
Merry Christmas.

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[only] Sarah Sarai dares lay claim to this poem