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Old Tom Turkeys

They are like old tom turkeys
Strutting from memory
Big-chested old tom turkeys
Short of tail feathers
But long in the wattle
Measuring themselves against each other
On stiff legs and small steps

 Until a blond female, child in tow
Sits next to Clarence Fieber's plaque
Outside their wired cage

 Pretending not to see, they peek
As once they stared in propriety
And do a remembered dance around
The imaginary on-deck circle
Shouting unnecessary encouragement
To establish preening territory

 Mating seasons are dim memories
Like towering fly balls and stolen bases
And bone-crushing fast balls down low
But memory is not the first to go
Nor fantasy the last

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