by Malcolm
We were young
and they were old
around the table.
There was no spoon
in the mashed potatoes;
bratty cousin scooped them
in his hand.
The maid was in tears.
I wanted to splash
in the finger bowls.
Someone brought the roasted bird
to the table
and Granddad said:
“He’s your Jolly Roger!”
thinking we’d cheer
at the mean rooster
now plucked dead before us all.
Just Saturday he chased us
around the yard
and we ran, dazzled by silly rooster fear.
We sat silent;
none of us ate any of him.
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