A Lighter Thanksgiving

An early evening binge, this is,
on conversation, football, family relations.
There's the uncle still bitching
about Clinton and still insisting
Nixon got the shaft. There's the mother
sipping her wine in the kitchen,
sweating from oven heat and anxiety.
Here's the child learning to walk,
pushing books from their shelves,
leaving half-chewed pretzels for the dog
to gag on. And there are the men
watching football, whose eyes are glazed
like the optional ham.

When we were young, we were pilgrims
the day before Thanksgiving. At least I was.
Others were the Indians,
with manufactured feathers of unnatural color
sticking out of construction paper headbands.
That was kindergarten, and that's when
Allison the native
remembered me and my name,
though I couldn't place her face.

Did I forget the food? I won't use
that silly C-word, the one with five syllables,
but regardless, the counter is covered
with bowls and plates like an early snowfall,
blanketed, and, oh, so quick.
It's a lesson really. Eat it, swallow it down,
the meats and carrots and store bought stuffing
until your stomach is unsettled. Drink goblets
of milk and beer like they're bonus rations.
Go for a run around the house,
perhaps the block. Now watch!
The turnips, the turkey, the mushy peas,
they all come up warm, melted together.
Put this in a pot, you've got America.