It's The Turkey

Folder: 
Holiday Poems

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Not the pies that smell so good coming out of the oven in oversized mittens, not the cakes lined up like sentinels guarding the holiday table from children who want to pinch the pie crusts, not candy canes on the tree, not the lights on the porch for visitors, not the rugs and table clothes that say winter is welcome, not the hugs (though those are nice too), not the platters and plastic wares full of favorite delicacies, not the artificial or real roaring fire in the stocking decorated fireplace, not the most jovial nephew, not the toddler just learning what shoes are.

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None of the above. It's Thanksgiving and it's the turkey. There is no smell on earth to match the golden bird fresh out of the pan, on the dish used each year for over a century to hold it. Some leave it in the roaster, nesting atop the dressing (stuffing is what you do to the dressing, by the way), cooling in the November air, perched like a rooster over the hens, on top of a trivet stage, ready to orate the wisdom of its too short life.

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allets

11-18-16

820a

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