Thanskgiving with the
An aging engine of regrets, its parts
pulled randomly from families apace
on surname rails. Their fallen pastor starts
by blessing coiled ham, fresh kin, the race:
each birth a domino. Their smokers' keys
grasped anxious for a Quikstop run excuse.
We drink Merlot, they mix green daiquiris.
Red Queens watch Lion King, the children loose
upon their laps, the older punctured neat
through lips and puppet moue, I flirt with wives.
My father talks stock with their failed athlete.
They man the gray divans, we wash the knives.
All flood the living room. I am the tool.
I start Charades: they guess the witless fool.