The Pedestrian Guide to Thanksgiving
You are about to enter a unique world with fugitive time and felonious texting.
Mining in a fowl grotto:
Cold fingers probe dark places
seeking release…hold on.
Found chef’s treasures: kidneys, heart and neck.
Grandma ripped the yard riding her atv.
Sparkling and hypnotic. Don’t stare,
but there it is…tinsel hangs off her chin.
Now playing the greatest hits for your audio pleasure.
“You Never Listen to Fleas” followed by
“Blank Stairs a Leaping”.
Impending covert texting during deep conversations
held in a spinning room.
Focus pokes us on the light and hang on to a chair.
The turkey gives birth to a plastic pouch of gravy.
(How touching.)
A cougar stands in the living room
pretending not to be there.
People ask questions.
“What do you do?”
(Friends and relatives come with instructions)
I shake them upsidedown on a regular basis
looking for instructions on the souls of their feet,
bend them over and search the back of their necks.
“Ann, what are you doing?”
A snicker slips to a guilty grin.
No instructions?
Clumsy words wound my friend.
Not knowing till after the fact
became a limp possum,
pretending to be in a tryptophan coma,
I poke him with a stick.
No movement.
Damn, my pornographic hearing.
Bang, bang, ditty, can, can!
Those French girls fell out of the poster, again.
(Ah…the hazards of buying art on sale at a magic store)
They jump on the coffee table and flash their bloomers,
singing “Little girls get bigger every day”,
demanding accordion music and tossing drinks.
Ok girls, back in the painting!
I go outside to clear my head
and borrow Grandma’s atv.
The moon cast its spell.
I transform into a cougar.
(This will make shoe shopping interesting)
I return home,
stoke warmth and good cheer.
Have a wicked Thanksgiving!
- by Raven King