Thanksgiving Dreary Afternoon

Where freon falls from a cotton lake in the sky,
everyone calls him King of the Refrigerators,
not so subtle at masking the face of defeat
but apt enough to eat through the waste of others.

That's where mitten-clad clouds charge
into the picture - to change the scene around so
it is he who is laughing instead of
the media mogul who sinned long before midnight,
clutching the long-stemmed goblet as if it were
a rose, a sweet-smelling creature from the garden
[he thinks it's in the sky, but really it's down in Hell]
of goddamn Eden.

'This isn't turkey but it'll do' says the demigod,
watching stars crumble under his incredible weight,
the weight of waterfalls carrying pilgrims,
floating back up to leave recipes on kitchen
counters so scrupulously cleaned hours before
we all woke to find the house
consecrated, raped by leaves and spices,
the old upright piano unseen under
miles of linen swabbing -
'what is this, goddamn moving day?'

And with this the King and the media mogul
go to war over who will lick the silver spoon,
safe in the knowledge that frostbite cannot spring
suddenly from unwashed metal
[but electric sparks can, as the winner will find]
like a pebble skipping mathematical patterns
on the surface of the lake last year,
dents the King took for a prophecy and
the media mogul a business opportunity,
the demigod declining to say grace
over so obvious a metaphor, so clean a symbol.

'Do you want to go out to dinner,' she asks.
All follow with hungry eyes and the patter
of anorexic raindrops trudging towards Judgement.