This prose poem by Charles Simic is from his book, "The World Doesn't End."
Someone shuffles by my door muttering: "Our
goose is cooked."
Strange! I have my knife and fork ready. I even
have the napkin tied around my neck, but the plate
before me is still empty.
Nevertheless, someone continues to mutter
outside my door regarding a certain hypothetical,
allegedly cooked goose that he claims is ours in