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Thanksgiving, New York City

The wild turkeys should be worried this year – Their luscious free-range thighs are coveted By every chef in the city. The cornucopia Of tubers at the Greenmarket stand Is a tumultuous mob of spectators, jostling For position. Decorative gourds invade shops Like misshapen aliens; a mountain of cookbooks Sprouts on the kitchen counter. You could stab A ham with all the advice you’ve been given.

Where the pie plates buckle, there buckle I. The metaphysical weight of the potluck dinner Makes muffins of us all. On the sideboard lurk The candied yams of no one’s dreams, uneaten Bowls of stuffing. The TV chatters to itself Like a crazy uncle, the moon fills the sky Like a ripening cheese. We could sit here Till the cows come home, if we didn’t have Work tomorrow. The marshmallow fluff Of your cerebellum says go to sleep.

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