at the easter party somewhere in the Philippine islands
i am thirty minutes late
i expect that everyone of you must have started dinner
those on the table of important names
must have already been seated in comfort
and slicing the beef and sipping their champagne
and those of lesser importance could have already lined up
to pick up their choices: chopsuey, lasagna, fish fillet or salads,
things did not happen the way i expected it
i become part of the waiting people, another thirty minutes
the reverend who shall bless the food is still somewhere
this is the party of fools and waiting is the bad game
there is no exact time to start, and every minute is flexible
the reverend has to say the final word
and we are but some kind of appendices on the book
there is nothing poetic in this thanksgiving, nothing at all.
the rice has gone cold, the grease turned solid, the guests too gullible.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Added by Poetry Lover
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