A far cry from labors
In the fields, my soft hands,
Carrying a potluck pot of potatoes,
Never brought in the harvest.
Not a whiff of the rural,
But, today, family chaff
Is winnowed down to good behavior
As generations come to the table.
In the animated somnolence
Turkey, praised between mouthfuls,
Is the only news, unless you turn
To the harvest to come kicking
In the womb of her mother
Whose future labors
I’m well to consider
And to give thanks on this day
That in my own easy urban
Store-bought life
I stretch no male muscle,
Suffer no cramps
Nor breathe through pain
While pushing a cart
Down a wide-berth aisle
To bring in the crop.