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Thanksgiving. There aren’t too many poems about Thanksgiving, I’ve just learned, that a) don’t rhyme, or b) aren’t terribly sad freesylings on unhappy families or dead relatives. There are many Here Are the For Which I Am Grateful poems, but that seems kind of too easy. That said, I had a very long (and happy) day at work, and I think the thing I would be most thankful for besides my, family, my friends, my health, you all, etc. would be a bath. I could just write a big list of awesome things in my life. It just doesn’t seem right. It’s not enough work.

I just texted HP “Bring Me PIE”. I hope he gets it in time.

A Thanksgiving poem, a bath, and the rest of 2014. Here we go.

No One Ever Drank Too Many Cups of Tea

No one ever drank too many cups of tea and wrote a masterpiece. Not a masterpiece masterpiece. Not a century long ditty but a cave drawing kind of lasting. And yet here we are, sober as kittens, and full to sloshing on the carpet with thanks. No one ever drank too many cups of tea and dropped a pie plate onto the tile, sending shin shards askitter. Or maybe we did. Maybe we did and maybe we saw some caffeinated and clearheaded boding, so precise vision of things to come. Maybe all real seers are dry as bone. Maybe they listen to all the things break.


Hmm. I think I’m tired. Holidays with lots of people make me tired. I’m thankful for you out there. Happy Thursday.