Fee
Fie Foe
I’m
grinding your bones with mortar and pestle,
but
I’ll use the bread maker your sister bought me.
I
had to sacrifice one:
I
chose the ungrateful brat who visited
not
once when I was ill,
but
you’ll be here for Thanksgiving
in
body, if not in spirit,
contributing,
for once, to the festivities.
End
of poem
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