Because all it had to do was follow
the other turkey walking in front of it,
both of them stopping Saturday morning’s
traffic on their way to join six fellows
rummaging through yonder weedy ditch
for whatever treats lay among chicory:
rind of Big Mac bun, cigarette butt,
styrofoam cup, salty glob of phlegm.
They have flocked through August’s morning
across gravel and macadam
avoiding old jokes without becoming roadkill.
They waddle without questions.
Their wattles dangle like answers.