Death to the Yams.

Thin music wavered across the air

An hour after the dead were gone.

The group with swelled stomachs

ignoring the carcasses among the silverware.

They sat to the sounds of children,

A satisfactional swill of warm gravy

Oozing through the ribcage

That lies still on the table, mistreated.

Red flesh slides on a trail of saliva

as the last is drowned in cheap plonk

feet approaching the footstool

for the afternoon TV: the news.

The weave of vicious success

lying discarded, knocked back

like the Sherries sitting half.

Drunk by the trifles.

The custom, a small knife blade

On the table in full view

In light of the Lord, a breaking,

Crackling at christmas.