The infamous pelican
I recently re-interviewed that infamous pelican
The one whose beak holds more than his bellycan
I suppose I was cruel when I asked, like in school,
If he feels like a fool when he swims in a pool:
And he replied, “I don’t know but it’s wellIcan.”
Then I asked why in hell he fills his big bill
So full with such small squiggling fish.
Again he replied, “I don’t know but I tried
And found them,” he lied, “a delectable dish.”
He then turned to me. Said “you’re fishing I see
To find out what I eat for a thrill
And so I confess although you may’ve guessed
Those wiggling small fish make me ill.
When I swallow those little dead fish in my bill
I agree they’re a waste and they taste just like krill
Although, alas, I must digest them or fast
Oh how I wish I were free to cook on a grill.”
My interview on the pier had come to an impasse
So I suggested we both have a beer and after that go to mass
Where Pelican could confess his sins with small fins
To a priest acclimated to the smell of dead fish and eel-grass
Pelican said no, he’d not go to church
He much preferred to stay on his perch
Because his regurgital of the communion liturgical
Would leave his billed fish in a lurch.
So that’s when I left the infamous pelican,
Standing there, holding as much as his potbellycan
Like some nervous-Nelly, caught at a Deli
Caught in the white feathered spotlight of poetry
A footnote of language inspired by a moiety
A fanatical grammatical Machiavellian pelican.
Gil Colgate was a New Yorker who happily exchanges New York winters for Oaxaca where he writes poetry and verse. His book “Reluctant Poet” is available from Estancia Fraternidad to which he has donated all proceeds.