the day before
a holiday weekend
faces filled with
short timer syndrome
as they tick off
the seconds until
they can clock out
and hide for days
a lackadaisical haze
of tryptophan naps
thankful for a
break from the hell
of nine to five
semi-existence

my few memories of
thanksgiving are a
blur of snow outside
yet my father grilling
the turkey until he
fell asleep on the couch
too many beers and
football playing quietly
while i finished cooking
so when he woke up
the feast was waiting

vague recollections
of my grandma’s house
and celery with cream cheese
and assorted olives
the adults sneaking off
to the ‘library’ which
i later learned was
the irish bar a block away

now an indica haze
settles on a sentimental fool
incapable of loving
in half measures
as he sits thankful
for all the loved ones
i have somehow accrued
a tribe which shows me
what thanksgiving means