PoetryLiterary Corner
Thanksgiving
I think again of my self,
at the dining room table,
or squatting beneath,
sketching my father,
seated next to mother, crocheting,
smoking or reading his
Armenian newspaper,
silently enduring his life,
the puzzle of it now grounded
here, his dreamland out of
sight but never lost to his mind.
Do I see their souls or only
my own, appearing



