A boy thought up a thanksgiving
as a trance, yet in the fault of sight
fine, fellow phantoms fade,
how he found a flame for a frenzy of philosophy,
how their kin of clans would come close and feed festively.
O how these friends of fancy would flee,
and he would feel lonely
and that this instant of dinner
was only a party in part, insanely
taking with an ill, uneasy,
exit out a door, quietly,
leaving his lineage in order
with the spiel of grandfather,
with the spiel of grandmother,
over the cacophony of food accessories.
Marvelous that reality
should raise a young desire, sure-enough.
I thank each attended November turkey
for this poultry, for our fathers and their expertise with a star of duty,
for our mothers in melancholy over unavailable matter of memory,
for a lover falling asleep by her labor hour after hour to make a pie,
for a home and for health and for work
dedicated with my wet eye
to a partner in passion
with whom I lie.
Happiness is such a sensation,
to make one cry.