Stepping outside, ten degrees
in a backyard gone crunchy
with old snow, he carries a failure
of popcorn balls stacked
like geodes in a metal pan.
Not a one worth eating,
his wife said. Never again!
As he rolls them, lopsided, light
in the wind onto the picnic table,
he wonders about the sticky threat,
the cheap trick of such treats,
fearing a ruin of guts and beaks,
the imagined carnage still strewn
over the lawn come spring.