we don't worry much
about the turkey.
we have no musket to chase
it down
as it tries so hard
to fly away
but can't,
born to stay on the ground.
the food we bring to the table
is ready.
head gone,
wings
and legs,
no feathers to fuss
about.
no eyes or heart
remain. it has no name.
just white and dark
meat that
we baste and baste,
roast all day,
say grace, then eat.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment