UNTITLED (WHAT I'M THANKFUL FOR)

not the pumpkin pie not the turkey, not the cranberry sauce not the stuffing, not the rice and not the gravy, not the beer not the wine; not the smell of it all, the smell of grandma's cooking, scent of her perfume or of her white hair, or the sweat of both the man and woman; not the tablecloth, not the special forks and spoons, not the beautiful wine glasses which twinkle under the expensive chandelier; not the crème colored blouse your mother has just dirtied and not the rings on her torn and battered fingers, especially not the way she laughs or the way dad grumbles as he stretches out like a fat cat lying next to the window as the sunlight generously pours in; not the sound of the doorbell and the beeps of mini-vans as they lock; not other familiar doors that open and close with a creak; not the piano and banjo or the sounds of clothes crinkling upon clothes between extended and close hugs; not the sighs not the smiles not the crying; not the scene imprinted in the memory; not the drive home along the highways of Ohio surrounded by a mass of dead trees that lay on the cold high hills with the moon as my guide; not the invisible tune sung by someone at a red-light viewed through the rear view mirror; not the fingers which shake uncontrollably between paragraphs when writing; not thanksgiving or the colors or the taste or the scent or the visions or the knotted feelings or dark nights snuggling by Christmas lights or words and meanings, or signifiers and narrative: not sense, not nonsense, not logic, not reason, not science, not god – just sad and happy, ever-so-fleeting, life