boneless hams

the line at the honey baked ham
store
is wrapped around the block.
the blue
pulsating lights of cop
cars
spark the cold night
as
we stand huddled
against one another in
the slow
snake like queue, coupons
in hand.
traffic is slowed and halted
for the carvings
of pig and turkey. parking
is limited.
credit cards
and lists are at the ready
in mittened hands.
a woman passes out in
the middle of the line,
tumbling onto the velvet
rope that keeps us from
being a riotous crowd.
some eager patrons step
over her. then a good Samaritan
places a slice
of honey swirled ham
near her mouth, the salt
and brine of it wakes her up,
arouses her from her
winters nap. we get
her to her feet
and hold her as the line
progresses.
the wind picks
up
and we hunker down.
we make new friends.
we learn each other's names
and share pictures of our
loved ones. we feel safe
to offer up our secret
recipes of cranberry sauce
and stuffing.
we sing along to the music
piped in from overhead.
there's still time, still
time. the counter is oh so
close, so close. we need,
we want
our hams. with or without
the bone.