Thanksgiving

I sit beneath the tabletop,

Examining the shoes,

The clock ticks, the oven dings,

Bob Dylan sings the blues.

The relatives have all arrived,

The children gone to play,

But here I sit, alone and content,

Enjoying Thanksgiving Day.

The adults all talk loudly,

They gossip and laugh and swear,

Memories of days long gone,

Each retelling adding flair.

Mother calls “the turkey’s done,”

The shoes all disappear,

I’m the last one to emerge,

Thankful to just be here.