Ghostly Dove in stained glass
on a dark evening,
will you wing these
thoughts and hearts
heaven-ward?
Will the flurry of your wings
yet leave behind blessings
flitting gently
down-ward?
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That pile of a man cramming Danish rolls
Or chomping on peanut brittle, or gurgling Chablis,
Pushing and shoving pork roast into his oriface, –
How he could pack and smack
Greasy chicken or dripping corn,
Or slurp whipped cream from a chocolate pie,
Or stretch his cheeks over a buttered bagel,
Or envelop a potato in one swell of his massive neck,
Or suck prune juice from a silver goblet with puckered lips,
Or engulf mandarin sherbet, his body swollen in tight clothes.
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