This poem is what I like to call "enhanced fiction."  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is probably inevitable, but intended without malice.

THANKSGIVING DINNER

All the young cousins have ants in their pants

Looking forward to visits by uncles and aunts

Mom is preparing to roast a real winner

of a turkey for the annual Thanksgiving dinner.

First to show up is Uncle Dan Fraser

who needs to meet up with some soap and a razor.

His beard collects cranberries, butter and corn,

and yet there are stains on each shirt he has worn.

His wife is with him, dear Jessie—so brave—

who’s not at all able to make him behave.

May I introduce you to Gert, my great aunt,

whom I really should love but quite simply can’t.

The woman has always complained of poor health

and yet brags about it as if it’s her wealth.

Here comes Uncle Ray, whose political views

are plumb wacko. His rantings have ceased to amuse.

Brother Tom, bless his heart, insists that we meet

the guys he’s brought with him—bums off the street.

Dear Grace brings her usual zucchini bread

I know I should eat some--I’d rather be dead.

Though no one likes it, our admiring comments

inspire her to bring it to family events.

There’s the uncle who wheezes and the aunt who hums

and old cousin Doris who always comes

to remind us each year of the reason we gather:

to give thanks for all the blessings that matter.

We’re a raggedy bunch, there’s no doubt about it.

Let’s all join hands and joyfully shout it:

One, two, three, yell:  HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

We’re here, and we are all glad to be living

in a land where we’re free to give thanks to the One

Who showed Himself to us and joins in our fun.

Everyone’s welcome here, old saints and young sinners

to the mother of all Thanksgiving dinners.

Postscript:

I ask you, folks, and please be candid:

Did your dinner last as long as this poem did?