November 26

The day before Thanksgiving,

I am home attempting a turkey breast for one.

The rain is knocking brown from all the trees.

I'm used to red and yellow 

In the towns

I used to live.

Not here.

Since last time I burnt a bird,

A carousel of voices rode through

My apartment,

Faces and smiles young and vibrant,

Conversations simmering and boiling

And settled to calm and still.

I struggle to remember every name

And style of hair that circled,

Coloring this room with curly blurry company,

A parade of booming drums

And timpani and brass

That drifted out my window,

Washed away from tangled limbs

And down the parking lot below.

And then,

There's you,

A ghost who visits

Never speaking

And never human to return,

A bullet left beneath my skin

That lights and burns on nights

I am alone.

- 11/26/25