MUMBLING UNDER BREATH FROM THE PORCH DE GUISE

Whither went all those thanks despatched last week?
One pictures indigents with grocery sacks,
collecting windblown gratitude at peak
abundance, whistling down the railroad tracks.
They otherwise must languish, thanks unclaimed
like dead mail, all those North Pole-bound appeals
that fugally pursue: a slyly framed
one-two punch, instant penury repeals
our cornucopiae to direst need;
our harvest increase robbed by overhead.
This year, though, as I sat me down to feed,
with healthy laughingstock (but livestock dead),
my corns more copious, my crust increased,
I thanked nor god nor turkey for the feast.