The Revenge of the Gang of Turkeys

 Richard Messina|

The Angry Birds.

Settling into the back yard,

Like black souls descending

From even darker clouds.

A  lynch mob —

Strutting around,

Kicking the dust,

Frightening the cat,

Whose hair stands on end.

Eyes wide.

Before slinking away.

The largest of the birds,

His angry snood swinging.

Sweeping his dark cape of feathers

Behind Him.

He strides up the steps,

And pecks at the screen door.


Then calling back to the others:

“I smell cranberry sauce!”

The sound of gobbling rises.

The Gang of Turkeys

Takes flight like winged thieves

Into the nearest tree.

They poise on the black branches,

A judgement rendered,

Their Talons sharp as knives,


Waiting for the back door to open.

Waiting for revenge on this Unholy Day.




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