Thanksgiving Rush
Is something I loathe entirely.
Fighting with the bird to leave the fridge
At my tugging and pulling I’m sure it takes umbrage.
Bleary eyed, sleepy, and tousle haired
I glare at that bird with my haughtiest stare
Greasing, packing, and stuffing galore
Until my hands are raw, pink, chapped and sore.
At long last that bird is basking in the heat
While other preparation deadlines I have yet to meet.
Sighing in frustration and whining inside
I dive into the chores that my foolishness provides.
Pies? Sides? Sauces? There’s more?
For what am I really striving for?
A full day of cooking, running, and cleaning,
Just so that turkey can get a 5 minute gleaning.
It’s much too late to hand in my resignation,
I think that next year I will just vacation.