Poem 20: A Hasty Ghazal

For text messages, turkey, and the Chinatown bus, thanks.
For cousins across the table, and all the dinner fuss, thanks.

In Greenfield, Main Street's empty, it's a day to be home;
for driving on Interstate 91 without the traffic rush, thanks.

It's true, I remember Cleveland. Last time we were there,
you were pregnant. Now the family's three of us, thanks.

Several Thanksgivings ago, I brought cider and was the life
of the party, before I collapsed on the couch in delirious thanks.

Roux for gravy, red sauce, and Cajun turkey pie:
For leftovers like that, the only word was thanks.

Driving the car, with the impressionable daughter in back,
you didn't just cut me off, you made me cuss. Thanks.

Andrew, your Saint's Day is the end of this poetry month.
Six behind now? You should give, for his slanted cross, thanks.