The Feast
There is a distinctive odor in the air...
and I am making myself scarce
All are in a state of repose with anticipation,
but mine is with distaste and finality.
Inevitably it cannot be shunned.
Oh please....how can I withstand them?
So far away, where the wind doesn’t blow.
Like an unfavorable perfume, the hound flees.
He seems to be the only one who understands me.
In total frustration we howl in unison.
Where is an end adjacent to this grievous affliction...
The only solution to solving the problem of
grandma’s ‘chitlin’ feasts’, seems to be disporting in the forest
with the allegiance of my conformable friend, the hound.
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