I was checking my e-mail on Thursday, after Thanksgiving dinner, and I received a spam message inviting me to submit a poem for a contest. I didn't want to waste a "real poem" (something I spent time creating) on some stupid corporate promotion, so I fired off the following nonsense extemporaneously:
Shrugging off leaden grogginess
and another wave of indigestion,
I am full of turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes,
cranberry gel shaped like a tin can
and apple pie with extra whipped cream.
The house is full of Mom's piano
spilling half-remembered carols
while another inch of dirty sleet
shells the cars in the driveway.
The dog is full of table scraps.
He gives noisy thanks, curls up
at Papa's feet and dreams of fat rabbits.
Stay tuned for an upcoming post in which I will reflect on a poetry reading that took place last weekend at the Johnstown Public Library ...
3 comments:
Doesnt sound like Walt Whitman!
Did Mom really serve cranberries from a can? At our house this year, we rejected that tin can and I made homemade cranberry sauce with orange peel and Grand Marnier. Chris's Mom had actually called him a few days before Thanksgiving for the sole purpose of confirming we had the canned - gelled, not whole berry- cranberry sauce in house for Turkey Day. Before dinner, we placed the can on the counter, easily accessible, in the event she missed her perfectly intact, perfectly-lined cranberry gelation. She never asked about it. Must have been the Grand Marnier.
No, Mom didn't really serve cranberry sauce from a can, as far as I can remember. The poem was really just a lame reflection on the turkey holiday in general.
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