‘Tis a week past Thanksgiving and inside my fridge
Is the sadness that happens when we cross that bridge
From feast into famine that invariably follows
A week made for gluttons and too many swallows.
Desserts were stupendous, the big bird a prize
And I thought that my stomach would outsize my eyes.
And so with abandon I ate all I saw—
The turkey, the carrots, the rolls and the slaw,
The cranberry jelly that mixed well with stuffing,
Potatoes so light there was no need for fluffing,
The cheeses and olives, mimosas and wine,
And “More, please” and “Yes, please” and “That wing is fine,”
All smothered in gravy and chased with a pie—
‘Til I was so full I was sure I would die.
But then came the leftovers—pick, pick, pick, pick—
And I’m thankful today that I didn’t get sick.
But, though my insides stayed hearty and healthy and hale,
My outside was stunned by the mean, spiteful scale.
And now here I sit, feeling puffy and round
As the scale laughs maniacally, pound after pound.
So today in my fridge there is nothing to crow for,
Nothing my sweet tooth or bread butt could go for.
Instead there’s arugula, yogurt, a pear,
Some cherry tomatoes that squirt in my hair
When I stick a fork in them picturing candy
And wishing they came with a snifter of brandy—
Just a small one will do or a thimble of sherry
Or a jug of cheap wine, maybe Pop’s elderberry—
To ward off the sadness that follows the glut
When fridges are empty and zippers won’t shut.