Turkey
I’m getting used to the weight of him now,
Getting used to the strength of my arms and hands
On this Christmas morning.
He’s almost a friend. I imagine him
With the rest some days before,
His cold eyes, his gobbledygook talk,
And being caught. And now he’s in my hands.
Gently I put him down, still sizzling.
Somewhere above a violin is playing chords and arpeggios.
On the radio a carol is playing.
Outside Good King Wenceslas has left his footprints in the wet grass.
We put the forks in to see how he’s doing,
Congratulate him on his progress,
And pop him back for the last time,
For a final ten minutes.
Page(s) 39
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