These people are so thankful,
these thankful people

and when they have all passed away,
every plate of cranberry-lacerated stuffing
and bowl of marshmallow-strangled yams
and that dish you always forget,
swearing not to next year:

I'll sit again the oaken throne, alone
face distorted threefold in mirrors
held in the trembling hands
of empty plates, yours most of all,
laughter pealing down
down
down
striking into an orb of blooded wine

home. again. still. never.