With memory’s dusty abacus
I find myself between
Christmas and Halloween
The radio mentions Black Friday
But says nothing of the Mayans
And Thursday’s the turkey
With pressures of preparation
The warm house awaiting
But never clean enough
The guests arrive with foil
Or plastic covered dishes
And ubiquitous familial smells
Their coats are collected
And placed on the bed
As we settle into the room
Where Lions and Cowboys
Have battled since the relish tray
Of televised time.