“The pied au gratin is magnificent,” the waiter caws.
“What sort of foot?” the husband squawks.
“Free-range, organic,” the waiter caws.
He wears a pigeon’s heart on his starched uniform.
The wife wonders if the stiff material chafes.
Her own corset is digging into her ribs.
“I’ll take the pied au gratin, and my wife
will have the kidney fricassee.”
Her husband knows that she loathes organ meat.
She wants to squawk but presses her beak together,
silently reciting her calming mantra, sky sky sky.
Azure with wispy clouds she sees herself
taking flight gliding on an updraft far
far away from the clatter in the dining room.
The waiter wheels in a steel table with
a naked man trussed on top, a gag in his mouth.
“Left or right foot?” the waiter caws.