UNTITLED (WHAT I'M THANKFUL FOR)

not the pumpkin pie; not the turkey; not the cranberry sauce or the stuffing; not the rice and chicken gravy's thin skin; not the beer or the wine or the margaritas your sister likes so much; not the smell of it all, the smell of grandma's scalloped potatoes or of grandma herself; not the tablecloth; not the special forks and spoons; not the beautiful wine glasses that shine under the expensive chandeliers; not your mother's pretty patterned blouse; not the rings on her fingers, or the way she hums along while cooking; not your dad grumbling stretching out like a fat cat next to a window with sunlight pouring in; not the sounds of doorbells and the beeping of cars as they lock; not doors opening and closing with creaks like the tick of a grandfather clock in the foyer; not the sounds of clothes on clothes during extended and close hugs; not the drive home along the highways of ohio; not the mass of dead trees that lay on the high hills; not the unheard tune sung by somebody in their cars while stuck in traffic; not the shaking of fingers while writing; not the tastes not the scents not the visions; not the feelings, not thanksgiving, not the forgetting of how to say 'father' in korean; not dark nights snuggling, not words or meanings, not sense, not nonsense, not logic; not reason; not science or god, just life life life life.