Thanksgiving

The cranberry sauce sweats on Grandma's heirloom china plate,
And brittle frost crunches under the foot of a badly played family tradition.

Someone bundles through the side door post grocery store trip - to retrieve napkins,
A pile of shoes becomes Kilimanjaro and a sign that no one is missing.

The card table wears a green plastic tablecloth as a cape,
And decades old hand turkeys mark the places - adorned with misspelled names.

Peanuts plays on the TV but no one's watching,
An uncle asks who wants to help rake.

Someone sneezes through the kitchen's pepper cloud,
Stuffing pipes an accompanying earthy scent.

An aunt frets over the mashed potatoes and battles burned gravy with all her might,
And fat flakes begin to fall lazily outside the window: signaling the next season.

The rickety staircase creaks a death knell as cousins tumble down it,
Grandpa coaxes a sweet strain from the living room's piano - out of tune.

Someone needs butter,
Coats return from the closet - back to the store.