Thanksgiving at Mom's House
She gladly brings delight,
So long as what will please is roasted dark
And marbled well within,
Or held on hock until it’s tabled on a whim,
With fancies fixed about
And savory dripping down the sides—
Nothing surely pleases quite like this.
But when the heft accompanies you out,
You’ll work to have it gone,
Or hid from sight.
The battle’s lost, try as you might,
To shave a morsel from the feast—
This settled notion takes its leave,
But not the beast.