The
Gathering, a Thanksgiving Poem
Outside,
the scene was right for the season,
heavy
gray clouds and just enough wind
to blow
down the last of the yellow leaves.
But the
house was different that day,
so
distant from the other houses,
like a
planet inhabited by only a dozen people
with the
same last name and the same nose
rotating
slowly on its invisible axis.
Too bad
you couldn't be there
but you
were flying through space on your own asteroid
with your arm around an
uncle.
You
would have unwrapped your scarf
and
thrown your coat on top of the pile
then
lifted a glass of wine
as a
tiny man ran across a screen with a ball.
You
would have heard me
saying
grace with my elbows on the tablecloth
as one
of the twins threw a dinner roll across the room at the other.
