Thanksgiving Over

Renaissance music is playing in the other room.
My father sleeps on the long couch that is there
under the trio of bare windows that face
the empty fields behind.
It is cold and grey, late afternoon, twilight really.
My mother and my youngest daughter have returned
to the dining room table.
I hear their voices, low, in between bites of sweetness.
My son has drifted into the perfect sunroom where it is cool;
he's asleep, too, on the loveseat there,
small black and white invitation to linger,
his too-long body stretched over its edges.
Their sister, the middle child, is at her boyfriend's house,
the beginning of the necessary distancing.
Their father lives elsewhere,
having excused himself years earlier
before anyone noticed he was gone.


And here I am, all that hustle and bustle of the cooking behind me now,
stomach full, dishes to be done, kitchen to be cleaned.
Pies wait to be cut; cream needs whipping.
If you were here, I would grab your hand, steal you away,
and off we would go outside for a walk
around the darkening neighborhood.
We would hurry around the block and I would,
finally,
just decide to do it,
to hold your hand
--I would slip my hand into yours nonchalantly--
and you might kiss me and smile.
But you are elsewhere today, busy as usual,
and probably
embarrassed by love.
And I am here, again, writing poetry.