A Thanksgiving Dinner That Didn’t Exist In The Past And Never Will Exist Again.

A Thanksgiving dinner

That didn’t exist in the past

And never will exist again.

 

I can never remember

If it was 5 or 6 kids

That were huddled

In that small attic space.

 

Although, I do remember

The radiator bed

Spray painted matte black

With the fading

80s hair metal sticker

And the vanity

From depression era

Mexico.

 

Sometimes when I would look into

That vanity mirror, I’d imagine

All of the past staring back at me.

It was like dust on faux wood

(Still is).

 

And there, how the Siamese closets

Bent toward the ground,

Two open-mouth triangles

And the empty bottle of El Toro

You kept beside the television.

 

Was it something sentimental

Or did you just like the bottle

With the red sombrero for a cap?

 

Lost in the scramble

W/ the black handled electric masseuse

And you, dredging up the stairs

With buttered noodles

In a bowl of porcelain white

And olive green, I take a deep,

Long, hard look into the house next door.

 

Slate blue aging gray

But with shiny, dark wooden floors

And a fire to keep the family warm.

It makes me sad

And I shrug it off.

 

As soon as I no longer hear

Your foots on the steps,

I find myself

Staring at the blue light at the peak

Of the garage a couple houses down,

There on the north end of town.

 

No fear, no idea of reality.

Too young.

In a spare bedroom

That didn’t exist in the past

And never will exist again.

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