Grackle Day poem

Lissa brought up Grackle Day and that made me think of a poem about grackles.  Now that I look at, I'm not sure that it's about grackles at all. It definitely isn't safe for the restaurant blog.   

            Grackle Sandwich To Go

North we went, me and Carolyn, who I snagged
from TGI Fridays near Cape Canaveral.  Skipping
DisneyWorld we settled for french fries & fucking,
forsaking Mickey & Minnie for fast food and self-made
obstacles – steering wheel & head, heels & windows,
friction & gravity – all easily overcome.

I thought a grackle sandwich was a joke but the more
Georgia we went & the more accustomed I became
to rental car vinyl the more real it became
until I felt a heavy flapping beside us in the dark
as we turned inland and went off the menu.

Cracklin’ on the plasticized mattress at the Peach Grove
Motor Lodge, Carolyn face down foot end of the bed
white bread crusts scattered to the 4 corners of the rug
& more I shook her hard. Dead, not really, wish I was she said,

black feathers on white sheets, a crunchy memory, a shame
on nature and two dead bottles of Jack – grackles loomed.
Suffocating in the doughy white, lively dying in a sandwich,
my head throbs as the night before jerks back, a zesty wing beat

makes the Wonderbread spongier more compressed and I hear
memory shards of Trim the crust Honey. I hear more than I want
& my tongue becomes self-conscious, roaming around

new sores & punctures & sticks, sticks stuck in gums
feather stubs. Up to vomit, Carolyn runs a greasy hand between
my legs & off we go. To the heart of America, where birds sit
on fences & people sit stuffed on sticks in fields of scare.