THANKSGIVING (Bruce
Sweet)
my
wife and I are scrambling eggs for homeless
people
at
a lovely church in Pittsford, where the kitchen
shines
like
the belly of a Trident rocket just before
takeoff
a
child wanders back behind the counter while the
bacon
snaps
and sizzles on the stainless steel first
impulse is
to
dart to save her from the flying grease but this
is not
where
we cook food at home I stop
short because the edge
of
the cooking surface has a curved up guard kneel
down
say
hi to the little
one
she offers a hug from her
dolly
whose
coal black button eyes are almost as dark as
her
mommy’s the little
girl says I
can help and I show
her
how
to put the bread on the tracks of the slowly
turning
toaster
tower
she sees magic as the dotted raisin
squares
rise
then tumble out of sight
more she says I hand
her
the
rest of the loaf turn over
the bacon
hear my wife say
at
the end of what was once an immaculate stove
eggs
up
I
shovel the bacon onto a paper toweled cookie sheet
and
the
girl comes round the butcher block table with a
plate
heaped
with raisin toast says
ready
my name is Grace
my
baby is called Faith her eyes
grow as large as comets
she
puts the toast on the table says
are
you ready to serve
