Friday, November 25, 2016

Old Tom (Bird Watch) Jane Yolen and Ten Lewin

Old Tom

Across the wet glade,
where the spring green
was still shiny and shade
gave way to shale
the old tom strutted.
Fanning out his bordered tail 
and quick-stepping, wings
sweeping the leaves,
he called his hens. 

Who could see this king 
featherless and gutted, 
crisped and basted,
bordered with yams?
We went home instead and tasted
supermarket tom, 
oozing butter and stuffing, 
whose life had been short
and made for the pan.

In matters of eating, 
our minds do what they can. 

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