Giving Thanks

  by Leigh C. Grant

You weren’t at dinner.

there are more leftovers—

She made your favorite,

minced.

I ate a piece.

somehow

it tasted like home.

and You,

You didn’t stop by—

five-dollar cigar,

irish whiskey, mustache.

this year We could’ve used a smoke.

The Kitchen still smelled like

dressing, yams, drippings,

polite conversation.

The Mutt still whined for a drumstick,

and The Toilet still plugged—

This House breathed,

wanted a little something to fill This Void.

We didn’t bless us our lord

for these gifts;

but We poured the wine into cut-glass

and drank to What Was Left.