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A holiday poem
She’s chalk now,
Brittled by the trauma of years
And framed against a pink floral lounge chair
Propped up — an elaborate decoration —
by some young, strong male relative
Who’s gone off now to enjoy a beer
Hackers-lung bellows
resound from the patio,
Where not even the cold can keep the smokers from congregating
Someone has told a joke,
Some tasteless dig
At one of the relatives still inside
Only the taunting laughter
the perverse, cruel joy they wring from it
is shared with those of us not in-the-know
And speaking of wringing;
What of the turkey?
Enjoying its own private sauna now,
Does it know enough to know how lucky it is
To have been given the quick death
Of the industrial blade
And not the one its ancestors endured
at the calloused hands of the farmer?
Or is that the last thing on its mind?
Smeared with butter,
Ass and throat gaping
Forced open and stuffed with under-seasoned bread cubes
Not even the meal is spared
The humiliations of the holiday
