Thanksgiving

That night you lit the candles in the rowboat, the woodfires were burning all around us. 

But you didn't care when the spray hit the flame, and the steam made us choke, and the bodies floated out of the mud.

And you're standing there, looking like 1965, silk blouse, pleated skirt. Hands folded. Eyes so hopeful.

And you're older than Buddha, but you're not yet sixteen. And you're untouched on some cold windy highland.

And I'm glad you still live here, but I still wish you'd left. Your husband was one of my idols.

And now it's Thanksgiving when people go home, if they still have a home to go home to.

So I guess I'll just love you, and hope it works out,'cos if not, ...eh!Th