Home for Thanksgiving
Slim shadows stand between the books I took.
An orange toothbrush stares next to the sink.
Dad's new car has two hundred radio channels.
My eight-year-old computer's on the blink.
My calendar is missing from my wall;
The Harry Potter posters are still there.
My closet's empty and my bag is packed.
I only have the weekend to stay here.
Three days to walk to Beaconsfield with Dad,
To listen to him reading Conrad Black,
To steal Mom's books and eat her lemon cake,
And pray they'll be okay when I go back.
"Na, denn man tau!" "Allens mit Bodder backen."
That dialect – how could I have forgotten?
"Na, denn man tau!": Go on, then.
"Allens mit Bodder backen.": All baked with butter.