The Truth About Tigers

In my closet,
one suit and a couple of sport coats
hang like understudies
who haven’t been needed in a while.

Most of the year they wait quietly
while I live in jeans and work shirts,
but when December shows up
with its cold air and early darkness,
they finally get their cue.

The city does its thing—
lights in café windows,
bars humming late,
some version of holiday jazz
floating through the streets.
Everything starts to look
a little softer, a little staged,
like it’s trying on a 1940s movie accent.

So I put on a jacket.
Not because I’m going anywhere special,
but because once you start romanticizing the season,
you might as well commit.

After all,
you'd never see Jimmy Stewart
slumming around town
in sweatpants and a hoodie—
not even when his life is falling apart
on Christmas Eve.