www.dennisbressack.com

Morose, slouched, I pace the unlit cellar.

Half blind, semi-intoxicated,

skin shivering, I am glum with grief.

Rush hour commotion is what I miss most.

Families gather, congregate around a sumptuous table,

spill beverages, barbarically devour the bounty and

engage in the seismic chatter of a Borscht Belt lobby.

Apparitions tug at my laughter,

nip at my nostalgia,

nibble on my dreams for dessert.

Standing isolated in a circle,

severed from my archives,

the music appears detached from the instruments,

Forsaken, I dance the Hora alone.

Dennis Wayne Bressack
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-	: first you laugh :	-
t h a n k s g i v i n g m o u r n i n g Morose, slouched, I pace the unlit cellar. Half blind, semi-intoxicated, skin shivering, I am glum with grief. Rush hour commotion is what I miss most. Families gather, congregate around a sumptuous table, spill beverages, barbarically devour the bounty and engage in the seismic chatter of a Borscht Belt lobby. Apparitions tug at my laughter, nip at my nostalgia, nibble on my dreams for dessert. Standing isolated in a circle, severed from my archives, the music appears detached from the instruments, Forsaken, I dance the Hora alone.
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