have suddenly appeared in
the grocery
stores,
enormous frozen balls of flesh
colored meat.
vacuumed wrapped
and weighed.
filling the cold
bins
where chickens used to be.
who eats turkey
in July?
so where have they been all year?
perhaps
happy and content,
running in the fields,
the farms,
the prairies, oblivious
to the month
we're in. making plans
they'll never keep.
ignorance is truly bliss.
but a whole one
is crazy.
who needs twenty-three pounds
of turkey?
maybe just a wing and a drumstick
this holiday
and gravy, of course.
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