(no subject)
Outside the doorway, Montclair
holds forth, a quiet
despot of autumn leaves,
scalloped mushrooms, manicured
front yards and sluggish towncars.
Dogs shiver, walking
through the rainfall, windfall
of cozy buildings nestled
in trees. Inside, the turkey
warms in its oven roost
as child fingers dice
carrots and aunts pace
around the kitchen. Cousins sit
on the patio munching
chips and cheese, sneakily light
into one another or cigarettes,
absorbed in petty misdemeanors
out of kitchen range. A girl tiptoes
from the tipsy festivities,
curls up in blankets with a cracked-spine
newspaper and brave blue pencil.
Cross words flit ambient
from the dining room, amplified
through the cat’s ears as
she studies its flat face. It’s never clear
why we give thanks. Is it for this
convocation of satellite points
suddenly orbiting eastern
New Jersey, the collection
of yams heaped high
on the table? The choreography
of portion passed plate to plate, cranberries
capering, serving spoons
upraised in unlikely ballet? Wondering, I raise
a silent, sparkling glass to the patter
of rain skimming the flagstones.