Thanksgiving come and gone.
Chopped veggies, rice, and two jars of “Chicken Tonight.”
Trademarked and registered “Chicken Tonight.”
It is friends around the fire ring.
It is bowls filled and spoons rooting through. Food-diggers all.
It is the fire light golden on smiling faces.
Three Americans and a Kiwi.
It is wood Cackling. Ka. Ka. Ka.
Flames dancing like the souls of Natives dearly departed.
The Maori, the American Indian, the Bondels, the list goes on and on. Tip out some beer for the downtrodden, for the massacred masses. Say a prayer.
A group around the fire re-defining family. Though we all know where we’d rather be.
But remember the Diggable Planets. Despite being absent at the home-cooked southern slog,
Remember the Diggable Planets who have always said, “It’s good to be here.”
And it is.
It is bowls licked clean and the metallic click of can tabs popped. Each like a liquid sigh of relief.
It is red cans and blue cans. It is gold cans empty and crushed, haphazard and winking.
The feeling is fat and happy in the clearing off of Rameka Creek Road.
Chester and I.
Two girls I haven’t seen in years, brown and beautiful before the flickering.
White smiles in the gloaming.
And who could not be thankful?
glad you had a good thanksgiving. sounds like a great time.
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