Satisfied with gristle and scrap
We come for your grease, for your gutted carcass
Leave the fat, it cushions the loss
of this time of year, say the Drifters,
who keen from your stereo I-yi-yi-I'm dreaming
of next year's feast, but the delicate membrane
between rib & rib is tasty,
dried sinew & tendon snug between thigh
& flank tastes good to us
Leave the dishes alone, we will make short work
of your long hamhock--You thought to make stew
but in the dark kitchen the only now
is gnawing the animal's sense of self
down to the marrow your dog paws for
in the trash, where the treetops glisten
