Hey, that heavy cream is for the pies,
she cries, unkindly. Steady holds my wrist
above the teacup’s rim, and, too, my gaze.
The thick fluid flows forth. Arrest

me. Sue me, I want too much to say.
Rephrasing that somewhat, I say OK.
Adding, sotto voce, God save us from dry turkey,

and He probably will, or She will, or the will
of the ineluctable Fates will, as usual.
Thanksgiving at my house, and all’s well.

This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 36 Number 3, on page 27
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