Wild Turkey

Not the bottle

Not the burn on the lips

lit throat glow

Not even wild     really

but a small-town bird

whose burgundy throat

shimmers like nothing ever

A huge bird    impressive

who lurches and stalks me

window to window in this

desert retreat

What does he want?

Clearly he is lonely

pecks his reflection

and speaks to it in a low gubble

(not gobble) gubbles so tenderly

Soon as I think of him     his eye hits on me

We have watched each other for days

His shifting colors fascinate me  his territorial strut

But it is his bald and blue-red head

his old man habits and gait that move me

If I even think of him        I taste whiskey

Drunk on solitude    I’d talk to anybody

I try his language on my lips

His keen response burns     like shame