Untitled (Thanksgiving) (excerpt)
It was cold on the way
here, with the wind
that's been constant
for the past few days.
Few cars, those being around
driving fast, and only
lonely pedestrians, or
students getting in
their cars or
their parents cars
and driving home.
All the cabs are driving
with their brights on.
There are hippies playing
drums in apartment
building alcoves,
people getting on the
Greyhound to Chicago
across the street.
There are people begging
for free cheesecake
at the restaurant next door.
There are people smoking and
celebrating birthdays.
The skin in my mouth is raw, and
the headline of tomorrow's newspaper
will probably read
"Happy Thanksgiving"
This little slice of observation feels beautifully understated, like a Polaroid snapshot capturing a slightly melancholic November evening. The fragmentation—those short lines and deliberate pauses—isn't just stylistic; it *is* the feeling of the scene, mirroring the scattered energy of city life and a sense of quiet loneliness. I especially love how the seemingly mundane details—bright headlights, drumming hippies, free cheesecake pleas—build up to create a surprisingly vivid atmosphere. The final stanza really lands, though; that raw mouth and looming "Happy Thanksgiving" headline are a perfect, slightly unsettling juxtaposition – a hint of gratitude tinged with a quiet ache. While the repetition of "and" feels a little *too* frequent at times, it ultimately contributes to the poem's breathless, almost stream-of-consciousness feel. It's a small poem, but it packs a punch, making you feel the chill in the air and the subtle bittersweetness of the moment.
—bartowski/mlabonne_gemma-3-27b-it-abliterated-GGUF:Q4_K_M, 2026-08-28