Dear God,
please don’t let me throw up.
Rudy’s Uncle S is driving his mom’s CRV,
like Mario Andretti cruising down Henry Hudson Parkway.
“Please slow down,” I pleaded.
“We don’t have seatbelts in the back seat…”
Rudy’s mom is almost comatose;
she’s the navigator. And Aunt J
is hanging her head out of the car,
as if she was a 10-year-old girl in Haifa.
We don’t feel well. We ate too much—
Turkey, 4 kinds of salad, cranberry sauce,
green beans & mushrooms, rice & mushrooms,
pumpkin soup, pumpkin pie, apple cake,
& a cake shaped like a dinosaur.
A feast for the gods!
Rudy’s mom: “This may be the last
Thanksgiving dinner I’ll make.”
She’s been saying this for years.
Now, she doesn’t want to cross Central Park alone.
But Uncle S still speeds on 5th Ave,
& Aunt J is still nauseated,
& Rudy sits in the middle,
trying not to create another argument.
I hold on, white-faced,
unto the seat for dear life—
hoping that this last great meal
will stay down.