The Third Friday of November

She waits for the phone to ring;

watching the placid screen as the

holiday's emergencies erupt

in drunken fist fights:

the pints make tempers

rise to boiling point and

their motions are liquid;

they are like snakes

in leather jackets.

The reporter stands

disgusted and tired.

"It's three in the morning,"

the girl sitting by the phone sighs,

"and his sorry ass hasn't

come back home".

The microwave dings and she

rises to eat another

Thanksgiving turkey

TV dinner.

"Go away,"

she says to the empty room.