The Litter Returns

Covid killed the matriarch; a year

later, the patriarch went on the rescue mission.

A new zest for the unlikely-to-happen Thanksgiving dinner.

Raiders, once crusaders on the nine-to-five, forefront

of the haters, and stuck-alone creators of the

welcome home front porch banner.

No notes.

Helpers pile in first; the rest claim the den

to do the gossip leg work. Perk

of being the family's lost and found

reward card holder.

Spades on the crowded porch, the drunk

uncle slinks off for sweat tea spikers.

Barely two-thirty PM.

Creepy Jason has distant relatives on high alert,

the kids' table may need to be closely watched.

Clearly undersupplied, No nose goes 'tipsy' driving,

or the evening is botched. "Yes! We need ice!"

Smells draw in the homeless, golden rule of our sorely

missed: plates are for family and the working class;

poverty be damned. "You Christians are shams!"

Bells ring of the final call: no one better be

thankless at the prayer.

"Beautiful novelty--pass the ham." There's always one.

The realness hits. Pa-Pa's house isn't the same;

strangers call me loved-one as

we all struggle with the new kids' names. Either

we all help the lightweight, liquored, laughing pair, or

that petty one overshares. Next generation gets

schooled at the dominos gauntlet. First rounds root out the

fooled. Finally, Cousin Terry's outdated playlist

vibes, hugs and kisses prompts the yearly missing-you reset.

Smaller tribes return to the fringe.

Slumber binge in a world reunited,

shallow doubts, for a moment, feel righted.