the cold
bowl of potatoes,
a mini Everest
with a peak.
the once silken gravy
now mud,
the turkey slices,
limping
their way home
as if lost
on the shelf, no longer
the center of
attention.
where are the bones?
the hard rolls,
unbuttered and waiting
to be resuscitated
by the tired stove.
whatever was green
is less green now,
hidden away
beneath plastic sheets,
everything seems
ready
to be swept into
the can, opened by
your foot,
only the bread pudding,
and cookies,
will get a kind reprieve.
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