Wild Turkey Shine
If he were a city he’d be Las Vegas,
this pachuco of the pasture with his neon
blue and hot pink head held high and
that baroque theater of tail feathers. Bronze-
tipped yet, they flare then fold then flare
like a stageful of Busby Berkeley showgirls.
Usually clunky, now he puts the “oo”
in smooth the way he struts so cool, all but
glides across the grass towards her as if something
bigger even than himself depends on wowing
this chic-as-a-brown-paper-bag audience of one.
So what if he’s subtle as a traffic light?
You’ve got to love the James Brown blare
of him. And despite the stupidity, he knows
that when the stakes are high, bet on extravaganza.
©Lucy Aron, Birmingham Poetry Review, Winter/Spring 2005
