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
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