A collector of   walks, I was practicing my llamastep
when one of   those white geese with the knob
of cheddar on its bill honked at the goslings
ignoring the art of the rank and file so adored
by Mussolini and other assorted lunatics
who I have trouble believing could ever raise one leg
parallel to the earth they scorched without falling
prey to gravity that was given a special kind of dominion
over the fascist paunch, a shabby thing
I have never seen hang around the waist of a goose,
though who can say for sure under all that heavenly
down where the hips of a goose begin and end; and even
if   tomorrow some budding scholar published a treatise
titled The Mystery of Goose Hips to fanfare,
it would be an exaggeration of   the grossest kind
to equate a goose’s trumpet with the barking
from the balcony by the sad bullies whose love
of   the locked leg I will never understand
since the knee was so obviously made to flex,
which means locking one is most likely a kind of sin
against Darwin or God, both of whom I think
would disapprove of anything so unnatural
as even twenty people moving in stiff unison
to music unless the brass and strings
were just about to sway and bend to the hot
version of  “When the Saints Go Marching In.”

More Poems by Tomás Q. Morín