Round a table of unvarnished pine,

IKEA or a boulevard find,

Gather, hungry, maybe six or nine

Friends, or something of that kind.

The spicy steam the dishes breath

Feels warmer for the chill

That from now till March will relentless wreath

The house and wither the plants on the sill.

The apartment is small and humble,

Old and high in price,

And any chef is like to fumble

Stirring pots and baking pies.

Accidental comrades

Huddle in the storm,

Struggling for cash and grades

And love to give their lives a form.

The skies outside grow dark

Like OSAP’s poisoned prize.

Future’s grim face looming stark

In their minds’ daydreaming eyes.

The pumpkin fresh, the crust from the flour –

No packaged cheats for this festive feast.

Food and friends work their ancient power,

That firms all hearts – for some hours, at least.