[Aaron Poochigian]

Thanksgiving

This holiday I’m hiding
beneath a parasol
at night. Aluminum siding
serves as a makeshift wall.

The tables are picnic benches
where orphans sit and drain
the magic brew that quenches
love, rancor, chronic pain.

Me and that mustached fellow
drooping over his glass
are content to bask in the mellow
light and let hours pass

in silence. We milk the lull.
Like me, the guy looks lonely.
Like me, he’s come to mull
failures: If I had only,

instead, made winning bets.
I’m sure he’s had his fill
of drubbings and regrets.
I wait for tears, until,

all of a sudden, after
six pints or so, the guy
erupts in random laughter,
great heaves of joy, and I

start laughing, too, and damn,
I’m happy that I’m living
the hit-or-miss life I am.
And this is my Thanksgiving.