Christmas Eve,
the feast will come.
Mom prepares the ham, yams,
fruitcake, and fresh biscuits with jam.
Dad prepares potatoes.
The thought tickles our toes.
A feast for kings, in a tornado of flavor.
When we eat the meal, make sure not to waver.
But first off to church,
and while gone, my dog will search.
Finds the meal, that took an eternity to make,
he then eats the ham, potatoes, and the fruitcake.
Now we have no food,
and my dog sits in solitude.
He feels awful about what he’s done.
A look on his face like a driver from a hit-and-run.
Christmas Eve,
the feast will come.