A Mess

Back in my first days as a single dad
My parents came to help this divorceé
And their grandson, to try to make hearts glad
And have a true Thanksgiving holiday.

I set out to prepare the family meal
Not knowing the first thing of how to cook;
I thought pressed turkey would taste just as real
(I’d not quite mastered any cooking book)

And when they came that noon from their hotel
The house it smelt a burning foodish wreck
For nothing I had done had turned out well
And autumn magic had turned into dreck

My father, who could eat, well, anything
Suggested, gently, maybe the hotel
Buffet would be a festive kind of thing
My mom, she smiled and said “It’s just as well.”

As sorry as my cooking, I was done.
What kind of single father would I be
If I could not prepare food for my son
Now that our lives would be just him and me?

But as we entered into the hotel
My son’s eyes shone with all its lavishness;
And I was thankful. In truth, all was well —
Ironic that
A group meal’s called
A mess


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