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.