It's getting close to the day
When we give thanks in every way.
When plenty's filled our plate so full
And we've stored our harvest for the chill
That's coming soon without delight,
All through a long winter's night.
But I am going to grandma's place,
To savor the food and embrace,
Memories of a long life, family, and such.
That's, my dilemma I must confess.
How can there be a Thanksgiving poem,
If I'm on the road rocking and roaming?
The answer is very simple, you see.
All I have to do is write the poem early.
Then post it at the last minute,
Leaving you thinking that I had done it,
According to my regular schedule,
Instead of frolicking without a care.
Don't you wish you were me?
Don't you wish you were there?
I wasn't. You weren't. So what's the worry?
The poem got done, didn't it?
So did the turkey.
Copyright 2001 © Ronald W. Hull