I give it a kissy and scrape it up. I
can’t go back to nowhere, learn all
over again each friend’s camera
boundaries. Album etiquette?
We’re all family, dammit!
Something to quibble over
on some other Thanksgiving.
Wrap it up and put it in the
fridge, where it’ll stay for a
week or so. But wait, the
disposal’s dead. What of
the rotting hamhocks and
what of the over-crocked
black-eyed peas? Let
Nixon rest under a wreath
made of iPods as the gas-
lines burst into clover-
like curlicues. Let’s
nip and tuck ourselves
into the teenagers we
can’t remember. Dig
up the stuffed swan
I won next to the
Muscle Man
tent. My-
self, a dry-
throated
swan.
