Thanksgiving

This pumpkin is half empty,
Its thick rind violated, opened up
To expose a crime scene of fleshy fruit,
Leftovers rejected by a series of small,
Hungry stomachs filling up for winter.

You are evidence of this. Fat and gray,
Full of fruit and yourself,
You sit stubborn, triumphant
Atop your prey. Forgetting, momentarily
The softness of your own skin.