Carving

Carving a roast
With a honed knife:
Set on the breast first,
Slice it deep, into moist slabs
For the man at the head of the table,
And the woman to his right.

The smaller parts go
To the younger ones,
Who will squabble mightily
Over wings and drumsticks,
Over who gets the juicy tail,
And wail that it is always
The favorite
Who gets the bigger half
Of the wishbone.

Slavering lip-smacks,
They can taste
The savory juices,
Feel their teeth sinking
Into hot flesh broiled in its own fat,
Seasoned with salt and spice.

All they will leave are
Bones sucked dry of marrow,
Nothing left for the pets.
All that cannot be consumed
Will be thrown into the bin.

They carve up countries
With just as much ease,
And the poor, ragged masses
Are the gnawed up bones.
The rich have already been eaten.