Geese
The geese have come.
They congregate in
parking lots, preen and strut.
Today they waddle in line
as smug as fat gangsters
as they slowly cross a busy road.
We are not allowed to shoo them,
hurry them, harry them,
besides they are always bad tempered,
always ready to throw a hissy fit.
We wait, engines idling,
feel good about being this patient,
this considerate for their well-being.
I wonder what they think about us;
we who daily get in their way?
In less sensitive times
we would tuck a plump goose under an arm
on our way to Christmas.
Progress I guess.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2022
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment