in some Norton Anthology of Ornithology, let alone
The Guinness Bird Book of World Bon Appétit Records,
I want all you Audobon paesanos to hear right now
who’s the first mad poet to ring-shank-spike
a fat, foot-long, freezer-burned muledeer salami
to the icy top of a railroad tie corner post
where I distract rambunctious flocks
of ravenous magpies squawking happily all winter
away from the purple finch/English sparrow
birdseed feeders. Maybe I’m first
also to have learned that even a scavenger clings
to certain properties and will
exercise its right to decline a handout. Once,
I placed a frozen block of tofu
atop the very same post. No way. Not one minuscule
peck. Like offering menudo, pâté, haggis
to a vegan. Poor tofu—it didn’t even get
a second look, a quizzical magpie glance
of comical disgust or surprise. I did not know
these birds could smell, let alone whiff
tofu at 30 below. I’ve watched
them gobble-up a bloated road-killed polecat
for brunch under a blacktop-softening sun. And so
it sat there, through five chinooks, through spring
and summer, until the post, I suppose, osmosised it,
almost, along with that dangerous duo
of dago hitmen, Sal Monella and his sidekick, Bocci,
who must’ve thunk they’d
bag a bird or two. But nothing
bit the dust, just like nothing bit the tofu. Thus,
I must confess—because I’m Catholic
and I’m unfulfilled unless I’m bearing guilt—
that I prayed very hard for scavenger foregiveness
as they laid their beady eyes upon my latest
feast and spiel: My name is Paul. I’ll be
your server this winter. For your delight,
our hammered chef tonight has spiked,
in lieu of our usual alder-planked smoked salmon
on the menu, frozen chunk of venison
sopressa over creosoted post. It’s free.
I’ll be right back to take your order.
From Wolf Tracks on
the Welcome Mat (OreanaBooks, 2003)
© Paul Zarzyski. All rights reserved. These words may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Lost again on the way home from the saloon. (Photo by Mike Gurnett)
