Gobble.

(For Ellen, who said, "Every time I see you in class now all I can think is 'Wild turkeys! Wild turkeys!", and for DK who has now officially heard it all.)

Wild Turkeys

I wanted Edgecumb,
Straight to Saint Paul.
But it’s 494, not 65,
I recognized an exit at least
the road pointed north, a start.
No. No. Flustered. Fuck. Fucking
Where’s my phone
I’m late I’m late, oh wait
Turn left—maybe this—
I’m so pissed I’m going
To be so late, going sixty,
Woah, woah, dirt turns to gravel
Bumpy slow down, don’t slide,
A field? What the hell?

Chaos:

Squawking squawking, feathers,
Talons on glass, smack, screech,
They slide up the windshield,
It’s a fucking herd, a gaggle, a pod, a school
I snap to a stop, hands on the wheel and see
Wild turkeys, a sea,
In the middle of the road
On top of my hood on my roof,
My God. Okay.

I get out.
Yes, turkeys. Hand to forehead.
I am lost. I am late.
I am in the middle of some field.
I am surrounded by wild turkeys
Who are totally pissed off.
I scan the crowd for their wounded,
They stop warbling, stunned.
I feel like I have interrupted
Someone’s dinner party, driven
Into their dining room on accident.
Like I’ve just landed on Mars
And the locals, unsure what to say,
Just blink their marble eyeballs.
I haven’t killed anyone.
I move one aside with my shoe
To get back in the car.
Before I shut the door I say,
Um, pardon me. I guess. Goodbye.
And I’m off, back to the city.
Carefully, back to my own.