Thanksgiving — a poem

Up too early, I fought all day

tears, that demanded

to flow.

Your presence is heavy, though you are ethereal, past

touching, holding. You

                have passed on somewhere new. We are left

                                giving thanks

for hollow things. Managing

to make a child laugh, eat turkey and pie. Unable

to reminisce, even whisper your name. Feeling

hollow things, seeing hollow things with hollow eyes. Giving thanks

for memories is a soup kitchen holiday, wondering

from where tomorrow’s meal will come

while savoring this moment that no longer exists.