Thanksgiving Gratitude

Before we ate, we went around the table:
"What are you thankful for?"
The usual: health, family, home.
Then the formal prayer, grace before we filled our faces:
"Bless this meal and the hands that produced it. Amen."

The hands are more than those who came from the kitchen.
The hands come from farms
where turkeys are bred, grown, fed day after day
until they are ready to grace someone's holiday table.

They come from acres that are prayed over
for just the right balance of sun and rain
to produce the yams, beans, potatoes, and pumpkins --
the feast they cannot afford for themselves.

They come from fields, from stooped-over pickers
paid pennies to gather in the harvest,
moving from field to field, farm to farm until the season ends
and they must subsist until it's time to do it all again.

They come from the bowels of the waterworks,
giving 24/7 attention to the knobs and dials
to keep the water flowing and potable,
who give up their holidays to make sure everyone else has theirs.

​How can I, with my head bowed,
bear the weight of all the hands
who prepared this feast?

Homeless on the Trail

Slouched on a bench along the walking trail,
A black man with scruffy beard and wearing
A dirty tan parka more reminiscent of deep winter
Than an early September afternoon temperature
Hovering in the nineties. His face shrouded by
The hood, its strings pulled tight so only eyes
And mouth appear. His worn soul leather shoes
By his feet, stockings plaid with an oppressive odor
That smells of neglect. I’ve seen him before, sitting
Outside a Starbucks sitting or sleeping on a bench.
Homeless with little belongings, no shopping cart
Only a dark green Hefty bag, his physical load light.
On this steamy day, I walk over to him, hand him
A couple of bucks for a “cold drink.” He takes
The money, mumbling something that I could
Not make out. Does he ever talk? Speak to someone?
Or is he invisible? Unseen in this affluent community?
I wonder what would happen if I sat down across
From him? Would he talk? Or might be feel threatened?
His space invaded by someone from the other side of life?

The Last Buffet

In the middle of a dream,
I hear the words
Your eyes are bigger
Than your stomach
And right then I find myself
Likely in a restaurant,
Quite probably, a buffet
With its all you can eat sign
Posted over the menu’s banner.

​In such places, the customers
Fill their plates with everything
From baked beans to fried chicken
Steamed carrots to pasta primavera.
Like architects from some god-forsaken
Planet who never tasted human food,
Eaters layer meat, starches, and even
A vegetable or two making those who designed
The Tower of Pisa envious of this concoction.

In such places, eyes are huge as saucers.
Lines move slowly for fear of missing
A plop or two of gravy potatoes.
Gluttony overwhelms moderation
In these moments as now two hands
Need to carry the victuals back
To the table where room is scarce.
No room for a flower here
But leave the sugar packets,
Salt and pepper for sure.
They’ll be needed later.

And then there is the stampede
For seconds and if it’s shrimp
Or sushi, crab legs or lobster rolls,
Hold on to your plate. Get a good grip.
Then back to the table with the last plates
Awaiting their removal
Still covered with half-eaten food.

This moment of yums
Will later transform into
A moment of Tums
Along with the over-eater’s mantra,
How much did I eat?
Yes, how much can one person eat?
Too much, it seems.

Meanwhile,
Across the world or
Even in one’s own neighborhood,
Another can opened,
Another box of dry flakes missed with milk,
Another fast-food burger,
Another mouthful of fries,
Another glop of ice cream,
Another slice of white bread,
Another box of pasta,
Another hunk of cheese,
Another bowl of canned soup
Is dinner or lunch
On most days.

Two sides of America:
One overeating
Another under-eating.
The haves with their big eyes
And the have nots with their empty stomachs.
In a perfect world,
Eyes and stomach would be in harmony.
No need to overeat, to stuff one’s ‘pie-hole’
For fear of missing a bite.

Years back in India,
I heard someone ask
Why do some Hindus welcome
Missionaries to their villages
With the purpose of converting them?
A small voice replied,
“First give us food then God.”
An empty belly questions the concept
Of a benevolent deity, and rightly so.
It’s hard to pray on an empty stomach.

Back in those buffets,
The sounds of silverware meeting plates
Is akin to that of a church choir belting
Out an Ave Maria or Amazing Grace.
Then the closing belch or even a fart
Is the amen to this rather profane setting.

Here the prayer should be:
Let the eyes see what the stomach cannot.
Be thankful for the food on your plate.
Be aware of the waste that you leave
And how it could feed another person.
Understand that your gluttony means
Someone is hungry. But for the grace
Of God, it could be you. Amen.

And so back to their cars they go.
No one smiling.
Stomachs bloated.
Eyes bagged up.
Minds clouded.
Lungs gasping.
Heart straining.
Hips sagging.
Feet lumbering.
Death lurking.