Thanksgiving Alone
- Katie Grotzinger
- Dec 4, 2015
- 1 min read
The perfume of a big, burnt bird clings to you
just as strongly as the brown leaves on your wet jacket.
You retreat back to fluorescent lights
and numbered aisles, failure heavy on your shoulders
even though you’re the only one to disappoint.
Plan B is cold cuts from Oscar Meyer
which is made all the more depressing
by seeing kids wearing
construction paper pilgrim hats run past you,
bringing you back to a time when
you spent today with lots of rowdy relatives
who brought their political opinions and stuffing.
You imagine filling your failed turkey
with the shreds of this holiday you have left
at your disposal - memories and
Planes, Trains, and Automobiles.
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