Thanksgiving Eve

•Neatened up the Little Free Library.
Filled the neighborhood bowl
With water for passing dogs.
Made a cup of lemon ginger tea to sip
As I looked out the big front window
At the sunlight across the way
Being nudged ever higher into the treetops
By the shadow inexorably growing into night
As the air sharpened its frigid knives.
Thought about those with no home, no bed,
No place to escape the cold.
Wondered in what furious and infested alley
Justice will sleep tonight.

Buff Whitman-Bradley’s new book is At the Driveway Guitar Sale, from Main Street Rag Publishing. He podcasts poems on aging, memory, and mortality at thirdactpoems.podbean.com and lives in northern California with his wife, Cynthia. Read other articles by Buff.