There is a dinner of which all have heard
Loud, a mid-autumn, and mid-wood bird
Who makes the thinning families fat again
I says the year grows old, and that for feeding
Mid summer is to autumn one to ten.
I says the best food has not yet come to pass
When grandma’s not brought potatoes for eating
On cool crisp days, always overcast.
And in that fall we name the fall,
I says together, highway dust brings us all.
That bird then ceases to be as other birds
When steeped in the sauces of grandma’s works
But even still, the question framed in all but words
Is always still, what’s for dessert?