Save a Drumstick

only in some angel sky
lapped up in gravy
can humans find
souls of feathered
creatures so deep
we can’t speak their
language.

only their gobbling do we
recognize,
their other emotions
exasperate interpretation
except for those scientists
who probe
other clucks
and wheezes for deeper meaning.

yet each year one
is saved, by
presidential pardon,
one so plump,
so gobble-de-good
his plumpitude so
excruciatingly yummy
that our high-office
holder only burps
and lets the ungainly
drumsticks survive.

other turk-aliens are not
so lucky,
their limbs
loosed by humid heat,
till white meat and dark
lie carved in mounds
too delicious for burps,
too tender
for tomorrow.