the table stretched from wall to wall
with only a narrow space at one end
through which to edge over to the other side.
table? there were four of them, in reality
under the brown cloths rustled up from
every corner of the basement. and as for
chairs, we scoured the whole house,
pressing the kitchen stools, the school
seats, even the piano bench into service
so that everyone would have a place
at the feast. then we lit the candles,
strung jewel-colored lights from the ceiling,
and processed back and forth from the kitchen
with platters piled high: turkey and gravy,
bread and brussels sprouts, peppers and stuffing,
cider and sweet potatoes jostled for a place
on our plates while we passed bowls,
bumped elbows, and my niece prepared to spread
her third roll liberally with butter.
then, brimfull with good things, we raised
our glasses and our voices together,
toasting the founder of all feasting.