Good Lord Bird
We came to eat him up, that Tom.
Man-handled his breast-heavy
body into the pan. Juiced him.
Laid in carrots, onion, celery.
Let him roast all day, steaming
up the windows. Crescented rolls.
Whipped Jell-O. Yams from a can.
Jellied fat congealing. We supped
and supped again. We argued Scrabble
scores and dichotomy (ie?). Drank more
wine and set belts aside. Told old stories
no one could quite agree on. Pride
of place: competing pies, pumpkin
and dried-out apple. We at them anyway.
Fought sleep, nodded, dozed in and out,
then rested eyelids slumped against one anther
on the couch, woke to a thankful cat
on the counter, picking her way
through the left out leftovers
of the Good Lord Bird.