(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 4, 2016)

November is a pine cone crush
of persuaded cheer. Each year stops
at the tide of the revelries.
A mousetrap apparatus of dollar tunnels,
rows and rows of landfill tonnage,
squeezes the lungs into crisp, discount frost.
Perfection is always ready to be taken on
in ribbons and fray. There really is a war
on you, crazy Aunt Belfry, and Uncle Trill,
a war of turkey-leg nationhood,
a war of congregation and freedom and self,
a war of thanks.