THE BELL CURVE:

Some wise philosopher and mystic — I think it was Mark Twain — once said after surviving a bad head cold: “The reports of my death were greatly exaggerated.”

And so it was last week when, after eight years of sometimes banal consistency, I didn’t appear in this space. A busy news day got in the way of pointing out in print that I was involved in belated Christmas shopping and something had to give.

On the dubious premise that more than three people outside my family noticed. I was missing, I am back, with bad poetry, on this damp Christmas Day with no football.

So, moving along:

‘Twas the day after Christmas,

And all ‘round the place

Was the debris of wrapping

That dressed gifts with grace.

The stockings that hung

By the chimney with care

Are now empty reminders

That St. Nick was there.

On the dining room table

Once groaning with food

Are only used coffee cups

To add to the mood.

The grown-ups are snuggled

Uneasy in bed,

Fighting thoughts of exchanges

That dance in their head.

Then up on their roof tops

They hear such a clatter,

They arise, thinking reindeer,

And find rain caused the patter.

But soon to their wondering eyes

Will appear,

All the new bargains offered

As post-Christmas cheer.

‘Twill be business as usual.

A day of transition,

To draw a deep breath

And consider the mission.

To allow Christmas feelings

Of warming good will

To spill over into

Our routine daily drill.

Which bring us to finish

What we’re meaning to say:

Merry Christmas to all

And to all a good day.

JOSEPH N. BELL lives in Newport Beach. His column runs Thursdays.