Thanksgiving Break: a Poem

The dinner table is like a blank piece of paper

until a 23ft pile of food is set.

The creak of the wooden table

wafting the scent of freshly cooked meat.

My stomach growling at me

making my fingernails dig into the table,

waiting for the so familiar taste of Mom’s pumpkin pie.

The plates in front of us tasted like chocolate,

while Julia Child in the kitchen, creating delicacies from France.

I guess the dinner table isn’t like a blank piece of paper at all.

There wasn’t a library nearby so we didn’t learn much.

But for real, we had nothing to do.

The vibrant rain of yesterday kept us trapped inside.

We were as energetic as sloths.

I would sink into the walls of my house,

until it was only my hands that could be seen.

Alex can’t get out.

When he does, hopefully things won’t be the same

and friendly raccoons will play with him out in the sun.

Bon appetit I heard my mother calling.

But for now the walls will laugh at him.

The plain white tablecloth would stay empty those nights.