Resident Goose
You smile as the geese return,
Look wistful as they fly away.
Would it surprise you at all to learn
That some of us loyally stay
In this off-season habitat?
Given you failed to notice that
Is it really the goose you love
Or a cycle of abuse from above?
Is it that, in reality,
You praise your sun’s prodigality?
(You’d think human ingenuity
Would find richer forms of promiscuity.)
That whooshing honking from the sky
Offers a shared temporal space.
And the best we who remain nigh
Can offer, is a poop bomb to the face.