Confessions of an American Turkey Eater

As I lie, nearly senseless, in a tryptophan dream . . .

 . . . it occurs to me that a stomach full of turkey and dressing and cranberry sauce and pie piece after pie piece after pie piece is a metaphor for the culmination of a life . . . and, a veil lifts from my sleepy vision:

See: the great, shadowy form of the Towering Turkey of Truth looming over the bed of the last sleep of my future. See it laugh a booming laugh and flap its feather-naked wings and say:

" . . . yet time and again you glutted on my flesh and you fell in and out of the drowsy, sickened oblivion of a thousand times before, until now . . . until NOW!"

And I am crushed by a sinuous, sharp-toed  turkey foot . . . to learn . . . perhaps . . . that the undiscovered country is, in fact, a vegetable patch in a high-piled cloud.