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By Starling Root
The ice-blue car rattled hours after the sleet faded into stinging rain,
starting and stopping like a proud but lame horse pushing through the wind.
Somehow we fit—shoulder to shoulder, pelvis to pelvis, craving against craving
for stuffing not whipped up from a box mix and pumpkin pie made from scratch.
And we passed the hours listening to the radio, half-ready for Fireside Chats,
because, even with Miley Cyrus on the next station, this was an old-fashioned trek
across the Mason-Dixon line and into a land where strangers don’t say ‘hello’
unless they want something, whether to make you neigh or pull their wagon
or stomp someone else’s Thanksgiving feast into the muddy, slushy ground
because that’s just how they feel about Pilgrim folk tales and good will to men,
and, dammit, they have to work a double-shift at Wal-Mart that day and why are
you shopping when you should be pigging out in a more innocent American way?