Carcass

I’m not your thanksgiving turkey
that you carve into.
Pull my legs and slice my breast.
You do your very best
at cutting all my pieces off.
Not a scrap left on the carcass
for the dogs to lick off.

Arrange me on your platter
with a sprig of celery and cut up lemon,
a feast for you made in heaven.
Serve me up in your best china plates,
of fancy painted gold.
You had circled this date
on your calendar
just for me, alone.

I used to run around
in a penned in yard with the other chickadees.
I was kept for dinner, yep
to please the hungry man’s needs,
or maybe just to satisfy the hunter,
being his prize game.
Either way, look at me. Oh, the awful shame!