’Twas the night before Christmas, and at the storm’s behest,
not an airline was stirring, most definitely not Southwest

The stockings were hung above the concourse with care,
bright trappings that belied would-be passengers’ despair

The children were nestled all snug in Mom and Dad’s lap,
while visions of sugar plums failed to load on the app

Yes, mamma with her iPhone, sitting back against the wall,
checked the status of their flight to Minneapolis-St. Paul

“Cancelled,” it stated, in festive red text,
and no one quite knew just what would come next

Then along the concourse arose such a clatter,
as other poor flyers became mad as a hatter

For their flights, and connections, had gone up in smoke,
Could they make it home, L.A. to Dallas, by way of Roanoke?

To the check-in counter, we flew like a flash,
joining a sorry swarm, travelers with tales to rehash

The Smiths had a wedding they just could not miss,
the Riveras a recital, the Goldmans a bris!

The Markhardts had honeymoon plans in Mumbai,
now, for an extra $2,000, they could take the red-eye

The Patel brothers were to reunite with their niece,
but their bags went to Athens — Ohio, not Greece

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
but two more ticket agents, faces stricken with fear

And I knew in a moment it must be Saint Nick —
or Nick, rather — read his nametag shiny and slick

Alas, Nick said, whilst typing away,
“We can get you home, but not till Friday”

Hands on her hips, Mamma furled her brow,
“What gives?” she wondered, “Friday’s four days from now”

Poor weather, Nick said, but more was afoot,
It turned out Southwest’s systems had gone kaput

Its flight maps befumbled and staff schedules garbungled,
the airline got flummoxed, then floundered and fumbled

Then Nick, clocking out, put on his coat as he said,
“Next time, maybe consider driving instead?”