The Thanksgiving Table

That wretched table

Stunted, hunkering low,

Plotting to maim me at the knees,

Gripped by grubby hands and crusty crumbs,

Waiting for me to shrink my self esteem

To match its inferior colored exterior.

I glare, repulsed by its puerile whining.


But that exquisite masterpiece

Sculpted, standing high

Desiring to embrace my extending height,

Adorned with plush cushions and witty remarks,

Encouraging me to experience maturity

With those further numbered in years.

I gaze, entranced by its aged temptations.


The moment has come for a choice to be made.

What shall it be?

Will I weakly surrender to my youth?

Or rise to the ranks of the wise?

The flimsy plates, or the elegant china?

The hollowed plastic, or the smoothed mahogany?

The pesky snickering, or the —


At last, I sit

And all the perturbations of being stuck there once again

Melt away.

Their rough and withered hands

Clasped into my unwrinkled ones

As we say grace

And I thank God for a new beginning.


This poem is about: 
My family


Maggie Prendergast

For the awkward stage between older than a child but not-quite adult.

For the even more awkward family get togethers where you aren't quite sure where you belong.

For simple acts that prove you're growing up, no matter how slow.

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