At times I wish
I had a closet big enough
to hold my turkey
his hair slicked up in spiky crest
he looks as though he's had
a mortal fright or maybe's
perked up to join in battle
for some flashy chick.
I hear the strains
(how apt) of the rock group
that he likes best: The Turds
dream of Infanticide

And yet in the morning
I enter his lair
detect the spoor of gym socks
furtive cigarettes
pat his shoulder: "Rise and shine"
(to which he growls)
go weak with tenderness
for this ungainly creature
all my own
for such a short while.