TURKEY BIRD HANGOVER
Heading south after becoming drunk
on my sisterís holiday fare
and the frolics with nephews and nieces
in-laws and siblings,
between the winy grin of setting sun
and the rising full face of the moon
and how many I will and have missed.
by the continuous ellipses of pigeons
roosting on road signs and bridges,
half calculating how many might have fit
into the one
bird that was not an emu as she
half wondering how they might punctuate
my car, I turn to my son or daughter
who will never see light of day.
That was bested
by the stare from an elderly couple in their
Screwing the knob through radio stations
that emanate voices and languages
lost on this old sot
with mixed feelings of function and form,
I eulogize the milieuís
misgivings of Potter and King,
et al and the lust for gimmickry.
demands blooms and pieces
to forgive the omissions
that make the columns straight and true.
Iím stuck in this visit
to meadows on the edge of the palms that ought
to be enough and more for everyone.
Iím wrinkling before the painting
of jímaie lífleur.
I loathe to think I can
when I know I could
bend all the forest wood
that honk for all the sum.
about the author
Mick Kennedy teaches writing at Elizabethtown Community and Technical College in Elizabethtown, Kentucky. He is the editor of The Heartland Review.