Momentary
mourning peace.
Mama pours a glass of mulled wine,
lights a scented candle
                               (- "cherries on snow" -)
and drinks to ol' Joan.

Passed down with the jewellery box,
somewhere in the will, the daughters
receive the annual chore of roasting
the turkey (delicious!) and the veggies
(good job!) and (could you pass the?) breadsauce
for their brothers and husbands huddled
            on a threadbare sofa -- and a younger girl,
            barely there, staring at a laptop screen.

Mama's not festive - always too tired -
barely celebrates, but orchestrates.
Years barely there 'cause she's needed in their kitchen
and someone's gotta cook can she please get a hand? and
one chivalrous male puffs out his chest, takes one for the team, gestures to the girl with no discernible attention span and
half-laughs an "ay, one day this'll be you!
Best get in there while you're young!"

                                                       ­   ((A baritone chorus of laughter.))

"You outdid yourself on the turkey."
"S'great, ain't it? Pass the potatoes."

Sometimes here, sometimes Spain.
We stay over. It's tradition: we're
scattered across the country,
maid duties are the least she can do.
Never our kitchen or living room.
Tiny. Messy. Unwelcoming.
Come Boxing Day, Mama gives
a bear hug goodbye and an
"it's good to see you";
Because it is, she thinks.
Thank you for inviting me
to carry out your labour.
I'm just grateful to be needed.

A month of red 'SALE' tapes
scouring the clearance shelves;
overtime for extra cash
scraped to afford the food she cooks you;
paying half for gifts she'd brainstormed
while Dad buys partial credit on the gift tag.
We vanish from your house
- like elves -
by morning.

Goodbye feels like: The parent
is on the left. The true wars are
the birthday of the lost child;
the true New York, New York
and the Historicity of Bush:
the war, the woman, the accuser;
the hall, Igor did in fact put the boy
to work; as Jr. appeared to show
great aptitude at set-up and lighting:
enabling Igor's camera to capture
the pasty flesh & melting make-up
dripping from the panic-stricken  
stars faces; the king, the solar eclipses;
the Italian, the aircraft knowing
their dreams in Brazil.

Open Open Open Open Europe,
Eastern Europe, Spain, Children
on the radio, law, family, management
center, red lens, repertoire, pain
like football. With Windows 7
for modern modem hairstyles.
Little boy, I want to write a new
song to the Asian girl, Snooky is easy.

Snooki feels good... Painting
on the wings of the left.
The true war games are the birthday
of the lost child, the true descendant
of New York, New York and Sinai
History of Bush: Nature Woman
Blames the Ball King about the sunny
days in Italy; Italy's airplanes knowing
its dreams in Brazil...

Opening Open Open Open Eastern
Europe, Eastern Europe, Spain,
Children in the radio, law, family,
office center, red lens, repertoire,
pain like football. With Windows 7
for Modern Hairstyles, Modern.
Leave a little baby, I want to write
a new song to the Asian girl, called
Snooky is easy.

I may be a nice guy
but if you crack
my glass demeanor
I get much meaner.