I went out to the barnyard to chat with the bird.
“Good morning,” I said, “you’ve probably heard
that you’ll be the star of our Thanksgiving meal
and it pains me to think that you got a raw deal.
I mean, why always turkey? Must we continue
to blindly adhere to the Mayflower’s menu?
Would you be excused from this fowlest of fests
if salmon had drumsticks? If tofu had breasts?
Yet every November it’s always the same
because some musketeer went looking for game
and the deer were too fast and the rabbits too lucky
and the pigeons too small and the weasels too yucky.
But your poor relation was ripe for the pickin’
— flightless and fat like like a supersized chicken.