September 21, 2008
By Kelly McCormack, South Plainfield, NJ

There’s a clatter of knives,
forks, spoons, and pans
as the chicken is carved
up and served,
The food is out,
And the buffet is laid,
Chicken and macaroni lay in
silver metallic baskets on
the stove,
The room is split,
Kids verses adults,
Auntie complains,
That we use a surplus of
The adults whine about how J
didn’t show,

The dinner is finished,
And the party has started,
We all play a game of murder
and trickery,
The envelopes we get tell us
our roles,
They tell us we’re visiting
a mansion on a midnight-
deserted hill like a scene
out of Frankenstein,

When the party is over and
we all go to leave,
There are thousands,
No millions,
Of tiny white specs,
Little individual snow
All swarming at once,
As we all slip out leaving,
We think and say,
Santa is lucky he came

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