That Time of the Year

 

White chairs around a long table
sat in every Thanksgiving
shared like childhood was.

Talk about tossing around old
ways and habits like balls
caught and dropped.

Walls of shelves populated by
books I wish someone had read
besides me, I am cool.

My wife and I stack up art
to replace what’s been on the walls
for a while raising eyebrows.

We built a house within and beyond
rooms filled with acceptibility
and kids yelling, ‘Look at me.’

It’s that time of the year to shop
the world stuffed with product
for worship.

After half a dozen decades of pilgrimage
and wrinkled questions, how could
the young not be young?

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About mrsorenson

NOT my president
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