The morning sun was up but looked away.
A brace of turkeys scratched up on the roof.
They turned assaultive post Thanksgiving day.
John Zorn was tooting some radio goof.
Father left the food shelter with blue toes.
I’ll never buy a frozen skink again.
The party could have ended there and who knows.
We might have saved a lot of bathtub gin.
The waiting line was frayed and beat and leaning.
In corners fractured poets took their licks,
as though in this oblique time words had meaning,
as if each grave outsider needed kicks.