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Uncomfortable 'Is' The Silence
As I sit pondering,
With your eyes fixed...
And gazing strangely,
At my giblets.
I wonder...
To myself,
Of course.
Is this the season,
I should use?
Will the appetite ignite excitement?
Is that why your eyes remain fixed,
Because my giblets sit...
Crocked,
Without a top?
And no heat to increase the ingredients?
My mind is not the only thing unplugged!
Are the onions, carrots and celery chopped?
No...
They are not,
As a turkey lays baking...
Awaiting a stuffing mix,
I have yet to prepare...
Because I forgot!
And there is no sign from me given,
I am ready to start?
Oh so uncomfortable is the silence,
As I am without explanation...
As to 'why' this Christmas dinner,
Will be late to serve.
Uncomfortable 'is' the silence!
And I wonder...
Should I,
Plug in the crock?
Without the lid on top?
Or not?
And is the staring I get,
Deserved?
Uncomfortable is the silence.
And not a snack to munch,
Is on a platter placed...
From which munchies are crunched,
To tease a nibble to taste.
What a waste.
Uncomfortable is the silence,
When hor d'oeuvres are not presented to offer.
Now I can understand,
Why eyes are fixed...
And glaring.
Since nothing...
Not even a carol heard playing.
Or chestnuts roasting on an open fire,
Can quench the thirst...
For intentions meant with desire,
But gone undelivered.
Unconcomfortable 'is' the silence.
poem
by
Lawrence S. Pertillar
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