I can't come home for Thanksgiving
Though I know it makes you sad.
I've recovered rather dark
Repressed memories of you and dad.
My analyst says I must focus
Until the memories become clear
So I won't be home for the holidays this year.
I am starting to get a skin rash
And I'm thinking about Ebola.
And you know there's African wood
On the frets of my viola.
I say: Why take chances?
Though I hate to give in to fear
But I won't be home for the holidays this year.
I applied for a Guggenheim Fellowship
And I'm waiting for the call
I gave them my home number,
A land line in St. Paul.
It's a hundred thousand dollars,
It's good for my career
And so I'll miss Thanksgiving this year.
I've been put on a diet: no glutens, no dairy,
No turkey, sweet potatoes, sugar or cranberry.
And I have to stay off pie until the end of February
And I'm sorry but my doctor says it's very necessary.
I am opposed to Thanksgiving
With its colonialist connotations
And the expansionist paternalism
Shown to Indian nations.
And in protest of the violence
On the American frontier,
I cannot come to celebrate this year.
I've started writing a novel
And it's going very well
The hero is a hermit
Who can't see or hear or smell
I'm spending fifteen hours a day
At my computer screen
I'll see you in 2015.
Our marriage counselor says
Thanksgiving's too much stress,
Instead of gratitude it's a misery and a mess
And besides we're being audited by the IRS
We're staying home and we'll see you soon, I guess.
Thank you for inviting me,
You know I love you too
Hello to Joseph, Sally, Tom,
Alexis, Bernie, Sue
I wish that I could be there
You know, I really do
And a happy happy holiday to you.