There are still half-feral cats
in the back gnawing dog food
poured into dented tin trays,
still the pool table, drab felt
chalky, ripped and piled with
flashlights, shoeboxes of papers
bolts in zipper bags, nickels.
There is still wood stove heat
slow-burning the empty
kettle’s thin copper base on top,
front door propped a crack
and drying enormous wool socks.
There are still endtables piled
high with library paperback
mysteries, lent VHS tapes in crates,
baskets of junk mail, all
addressed to “Loser.” There
are still two separate beds
in two separate rooms, still
that proud solid pine carved
stopped clock and fine
undisturbed fur coats on the rack.
I am still seated at the kids’ table,
twenty-three years running,
and I find a turkey bone
in the stuffing you assured me
would be vegetarian this year,
so I could still eat something.
I’ve never yet heard you
tell my father you love him,
but everyone, even
my aunt’s butch girlfriend
and those damned cats
get fed when they come.
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