Thanksgiving Poem by Thomas Kellar


The man next door.
Insatiably punctual.
Wouldn’t dream of being late
Even to a root-canal.
Dresses like his tailor’s life
depended on it.
Drives a European sedan
that speaks to him,
“the door is ajar.”
Habitually watches the weather channel.

he burned through autumn daylight
passionately dandifying his house
with outside decorations
pulled from carefully labeled
cardboard boxes.
Mr. and Mrs. Claus,
sleigh, reindeer, stars, angels,
candy canes and ginger bread men,
a complete nativity scene,
(including livestock)
plastic wreaths,
rope lights,
icicle lights,
lights that pulse and fade.
In response to 9/11,
a luminescent American flag.

7 PM.
He stands outside
surrounded by neighbors,
yells to his wife,
“the orange extension cord.”
like police helicopter
tracking criminal,
night is shredded,
pupils contract,
cockroaches run for cover.
a yuletide fantasia
That would cause Martha Stewart envy,
no energy crisis here.

In my kitchen
a friend bakes pumpkin pie,
rinses the good China,
defrosts the turkey for tomorrow’s celebration.
I tell her to forget about it.
“Gratitude is a dying sentiment,
Thanksgiving is going the way of the Buffalo,
it’s a ghost town
between Halloween-berg and Christmas-ville,
the train doesn’t stop there anymore.”
She looks annoyed,
ignores my rant,
wants to know if I like
chestnuts in the stuffing.

Originally published at on Nov 30, 2004 @ 8:46