Joseph Syndrome

Thanksgiving yum yum
a table of food and relatives
a table of brown—
turkey, gravy, stuffing, bread
fall leaves, brown
remains of harvest on the field, brown
grass in the ditches, brown—
we’ve all traveled to be at this big brown table,
yumming and yucking it up.

My Uncle Sam, appropriately, talks politics
his son Joseph at his side,
fidgeting I’m hot
and being shushed
we eat this infinite pile of food
and still li’l Joseph complains I’m hot
and Uncle Sam keeps talking about that damn Reagan
and Joseph’s mom keeps shushing
and we’re bloating
til finally poor Joseph plum overheats
and makes himself a family legend
in one bold act of creation—

At the Thanksgiving table,
Joseph vomits.

An incredible puke!
Joseph’s ripe stomach, a wee bucket,
spouts from his wide mouth,
a flying tube o’ food back on his plate,
in reverse film slo-mo’ed for all to savor.

And the miracle of it,
he didn’t spill a drop.
The glob centered on his plate,
liquid flowing to the sides but not over,
and before Joseph lay a plate of mushy, chunky food,
—all brown.

Brown,
like fall, brown,
like Thanksgiving,
Joseph’s plate is brown—and no different from the plates set before us.
Forks hang in the air as our eyes go from Joseph’s plate to our own, remarkably similar, and
Joseph’s mother, needing something to do, desperately searches for something to wipe up.

Finally, it is Uncle Sam
who breaks the hold of the vomit
Well, we know how Joseph feels about Reagan,
and laughing,
we pick up our shovels and bend to it again.