The Gathering, a Thanksgiving Poem
by Billy Collins Outside, the scene was right for the season, heavy gray clouds and just enough wind to blow down the last of the yellow leaves. But the house was different that day, so distant from the other houses, like a planet inhabited by only a dozen people with the same last name and the same nose rotating slowly on its invisible axis. Too bad you couldn't be there but you were flying through space on your own asteroid with your arm around an uncle. You would have unwrapped your scarf and thrown your coat on top of the pile then lifted a glass of wine as a tiny man ran across a screen with a ball. You would have heard me saying grace with my elbows on the tablecloth as one of the twins threw a dinner roll across the room at the other.
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