UNTITLED (WHAT I'M THANKFUL FOR)

not the pumpkin pie, not the turkey, not the cranberry sauce, not the stuffing, not the rice, not the gravy, not the beer, not the wine, not the smell of it all, the smell of grandma's cooking, not the smell of grandma herself, not the scent of her hair or mother's, not the smell of sweat both the women and the men, not the tablecloth, not the special forks and spoons, not the beautiful wine glasses that tattered tablecloth under the expensive chandelier, not the pretty blouse your mom wears which she will dirty later, not the rings on her fingers or the way she laughs, and not the way dad grumbles and stretches out like a fat cat, lying next to the window as the sunlight pours in generously, not the sounds of the doorbells and beeps of cars as they lock, not the doors that open and close with a creak, not the music, not the crinkle of clothes on clothes during extended and close hugs, not the sighs, not the smiles, not the drive home along the highways of ohio, not the mass of dead trees that lay on the high hills, not a heavenly sunset that chills the skin, not shaky fingers while writing, not colors, not taste, not scent, not visions, not feelings, not thanksgiving, not words or meanings, not sense, not nonsense, not logic, not reason, not science, not god, just the moment when all you can think of and feel and believe and utter under a soft gasping breath is the word life