I wish the poem was nicer/

on this eve of the day we celebrate hospitality/

and survival/

we are treacle nice/

or try to be/

shooting for the hallmark pretty as a picture/

life/

considered rude/

to point out the hungry/

the lonely/

the ones sleeping under bridges/

are there the other 364 days of the year/

and we care less/

even ruder to point out the hospitality we celebrate/

was wrapped in genocide/

not unlike the ones we are/

currently presiding over/

even now/

choke down feelings/

dry as the un-injected bird/

chase sugar highs/

with favorite shortbread cookies/

whole packages/

until/

like Jeremiah/

God sends we out/

to proclaim destruction and reconstruction/

with  broken bone dry eyes

Light struck/
the corner of my plate/
the art in my cup cooling/
while I thought of the power/
in my hand/
power to hurt/
power to heal/
power to build up/
power to destroy/
what a laugh/
we imagine ourselves tiny/
domesticated gods/
ruling the somewhat tattered/
shreds of light/
that occur to us/
it would be better to simply/
find a friend in a stranger/
and chat
 

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