Wine-drunk, wearing a robe
the red of my consumption,
I trailed Dora into the kitchen
as if getting some dark chocolate
to accompany the wine
was on par with
a coronation of a new queen
on England’s throne.
There is the matter
of those friends who address me
with my full name
and the discourse
over Thanksgiving Dinner
on what current affairs
are worthy of our given thanks.
Outside the window
a pond obscured by ducks
finds room for two more
as they glide in front of the cattails
that line the far side.
I love everyone assembled
whose faces glow
in the post meal candle light
mostly because I have
no authority over them
and how they live their lives.
Nor they me, except for Paul
who suggests I use cling-wrap
over a ceramic plate
instead of a Tupperware container
for the left over turkey.
copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney
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