I’m afraid of ostriches.
Not metaphorical ones
(though head in the sand
can be worse than a rotting pecan
disguised on a praline pie –
take one bite and see how quick reality happens).
No, I mean real ostriches,
with their spaghetti legs
and avocado heads
and Jello salad wiggle-walk.
And the way they run,
like something eats at their tail feathers?
All stale-beaked and bean-eyed?
That one time an ostrich spooned its neck
against my car window and actually cackled,
threatening to take the wheel and me?
What kind of death would that be,
death by salty ostrich?
I’d prefer to choke on a decaying nut.
Or drown in a sand pit.
I’d rather not think about it.