Once a year or so
we traced mailbox letters,
traipsed turkey-scented hallways,
bore holiday bags and boxes
to dark doorways in strange buildings
where Mom tentatively knocked.
Someone beckoned us inside:
Well you found it!
Merry Thanksgiving!
Scattered throughout
were cousins, presents,
food, maybe a tree,
and commandeering a corner
of the too-close room
in her favorite comfy chair,
there was Grandma:
Crazy as a shit-house rat.
Some years got canceled
if she got herself committed,
going off her meds ranting
about monsters or voices.
It was like traveling to Faerie
with similar rules:
1. Only eat what Mom made
2. Just pretend you know what she’s talking about
3. Be ready to leave at all times!
One year we all brought sides
for a turkey she was roasting.
But instead Grandma laid out
onions, mustard, slaw,
heated chili from a can.
Hot dogs simmered in a pan,
no turkey in sight and she said:
I just felt like a hot dog
as if that explained
everything.
Dreadful Ideas 