Uncomfortable 'Is' The Silence

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.