The chocolate-covered calendar read August

yet the citrus pork bellies lounged

casually on Christmas china waiting

for their escorts to the table, pigeon peas

freshly picked and still boiling

in a pot on the iron stove

the iron as black as night

the coals singing below

while nearby they lay

the potatoes quiet and still

meticulously scrubbed

carefully dried and seasoned

now asleep in a glass bowl

the red Idaho’s peeled

and poached in white wine

as the blind man sniffed the air

surrendering to the smells, succulent smells

pungent like cloves or tar;

the aromas escaped from the kitchen

entered the dining room, then hovered

like an eagle over the table

right above the midget squirming in his chair

his eyes fixed on the Christmas tree, an old wood pole

with branches made of toilet bowl scrubbers

their green bushy heads as prickly as pine needles

their arms draped in Christmas lights

trembling, shimmering, blinking rhythmically

to the music seeping into the midget’s head

the sound escaping from him, an iPod perhaps

as he sat on a high chair, his legs swinging

his mouth chewing on chocolate

his hands creating hills in front of him

hills of chocolate raisins

hills of M & M’s

hills he will hide in

when the pigeon peas appear.

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