by Emily Shifflett
Ah, it’s that time of year again.
Once more, you’re called onto a battlefield.
It bustles about, under fluorescent lighting
Until the general purpose is revealed.
The women around prepare themselves
The goal sits full and plump
You see the sea of combatants
Waiting, poised to jump.
Ever later the hour grows
And panic seeps within
You push it down, eyes on the prize
Determined, only to win
And, finally, oh finally at last
The first contender makes her move
All hell falls forth, a stampede awakens
Of obstacles to be removed
And up on high, it sits, surveying
It’s gladiators in the ring
The race, the chase, the frenzy
All for one thing
Late, late, almost too late
You think as you draw to the slaughter near
Must get there, must seize it
Time prompts ever more fear
You reach the battlegrounds and see the others
Their plight clumsy and jerky
You slip past so silently
And, victoriously, claim the last Thanksgiving turkey.
