James Walton #119 by a suburban rear lane

every Sunday he cuts a rabbit’s throat

but not the time the Christmas goose

overfed but not wanting to be stuffed

B52’d its way up onto the roof

honking at the peerless empty sky

wanting the ancient formation of brethren

to pick up the burlap straggler’s call

a furry one held by back legs

the squeal of fear and protest

escaped to a week’s reprieve

while his ninety-two-year-old wife

scaled the cyclone wire grape support

for a drumstick and breast that needed seasoning

when she wasn’t next door over the back

her wheelbarrow full of bricks

the building crew had stacked wrong

relaying in perfect herringbone

a pattern from beneath the canals of Venice