Thursday, December 27, 2007

Turkey Malarkey


With alacrity,
and regularity…
the turkeys come,
capitalists of a sort,
frumping into the corral,
a non-cooperative consortium
in conversation
abrupto.

Dirt scratchers,
shit pickers,
left over lingerers...

“oats,” he says, “oats”…
“No, grubs,” she says, “grubs.”
“No” “no”
“Yes” “yes”
flutter flap
“Pow”
(right on the noggin)
“There…mister…”

“Ping”
“back at you…knucklehead,
and raise you a
rake with the old spur.”

“Yikes.”
“What’s that?”
flutter flap flap
whoosh…

Roam in circles
stirring up dust…
In the middle, is that
pompous display…lust?
Nope.
Arrogance…?
Maybe.

Reminds me of
floor debate,
and interminable

interim

joint committee meetings.

1 comment:

Michael said...

Awesome.

My wife and I love this poem.

--Michael W. Dean