Thanksgiving Day is here, a symptom
Of the illnesses which plague the Pilgrims'
Promised land. For some, it is a paid day off,
Which warrants thanks, a holiday (though
Hardly holy) spent at home, examining
The stacks of ads for sales which mark
The midnight start of weeks of naked
Gluttony, the type of ritual one might expect
Where the sole god is Mammon, and the word,
“salvation,” has no S. It has a dollar sign,
And, as the affluent relax, their servants
Don't. They can't. They are not paid for
Holidays. Instead, they have to file in
To feed, to clean, to drive the trucks which
Bring the trinkets that their betters buy
To hand out to themselves. Broken
And invisible, the servants are too busy
To be thankful for this day.

Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 16 times
Written on 2021-11-25 at 19:39

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