Uncomfortable 'Is' The Silence Poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar

As I sit pondering,
With your eyes fixed...
And gazing strangely,
At my giblets.
I wonder...
To myself,
Of course.

Is this the season,
I should use?
Will the appetite ignite excitement?

Is that why your eyes remain fixed,
Because my giblets sit...
Crocked,
Without a top?
And no heat to increase the ingredients?

My mind is not the only thing unplugged!

Are the onions, carrots and celery chopped?
No...
They are not,
As a turkey lays baking...
Awaiting a stuffing mix,
I have yet to prepare...
Because I forgot!
And there is no sign from me given,
I am ready to start?

Oh so uncomfortable is the silence,
As I am without explanation...
As to 'why' this Christmas dinner,
Will be late to serve.

Uncomfortable 'is' the silence!
And I wonder...
Should I,
Plug in the crock?
Without the lid on top?
Or not?
And is the staring I get,
Deserved?

Uncomfortable is the silence.
And not a snack to munch,
Is on a platter placed...
From which munchies are crunched,
To tease a nibble to taste.
What a waste.

Uncomfortable is the silence,
When hor d'oeuvres are not presented to offer.

Now I can understand,
Why eyes are fixed...
And glaring.
Since nothing...
Not even a carol heard playing.
Or chestnuts roasting on an open fire,
Can quench the thirst...
For intentions meant with desire,
But gone undelivered.

Unconcomfortable 'is' the silence.