I wasn’t always like this—
once, just a blob of potential,
plastic resin on pause,
waiting to be more
than a joke with a beak.

They molded me,
not a swan, not even
a goofy gnome—
just a stupid, tacky goose.
Stretch, shape, stuff me in a box,
ship me out—
factory reject,
neither duck nor bird,
destined for display.

I’ve imagined other lives:
a birdbath, solid among zinnias,
offering the city finches a drink—
or maybe a lamp, giving off light,
enlightening the weary.
But no, I’m just a goose,
lifeless, less than a punchline.

I could’ve been worse—
a plastic flamingo,
horrorshow pink,
mocked in manicured lawns,
but at least flamingos
stand together.
Or I could have been better—
a plastic Buddha—
catching whispered prayers,
offering luck and peace.
Instead: this.
A porch goose,
under watch,
costumed for every season,
draped in hollow cheer.

They could have made me
useful, at least—
something with purpose.
A diaper pail—imagine!
The 80s loved plastic.
I could have held
the honest stink of living,
earned my place in a nursery’s corner,
a vessel for the mess,
respected in necessity.
That’s purpose.
That’s fate.

Instead, I began
wrapped in cellophane,
smothered and dreaming,
until the aide from the “retirement home”
tore me free—
too cheery by half.
“Oh, look at you! So cute!”
Her mission: dress me up.

Seasonal garb,
ghost sheets,
ridiculous hats,
dragged over my rigid head.
I wanted solitude,
she wanted festivity.
“Lovely,” she called me—
no, just plastic,
molded and mute,
a stage for her holiday whims.

Parked by the sliding doors—
rain, wind, heat,
the icy gnash of winter.
Halloween: a ghost sheet,
reject from a horror flick,
kids giggling, “Ghost goose!”
If only I could roll my eyes,
kick a shin.

Christmas:
green wrap, fake fur,
like a tree, not a bird.
Santa beside me,
lightbulb up his rear,
glowing warm as I froze,
my own plastic butt
bitter in the cold.

Fourth of July:
red, white, blue,
balloons knocking my head,
patriotic farce—
humans parading freedom,
while I am lashed to festivity,
hopeless and unmoving.

Even the dog peed on me—
a family’s mutt,
open house humiliation.
No beak to bite,
no voice to curse.
Just the hot yellow of contempt.

Election season:
flags, banners,
ballot fervor.
Humans project their hopes,
never asking if I share.
I’m from China.
I hate their democracy décor,
the noise, the pride.

Then Ms. Betty—
sweet, confused—
took me in,
fed me pretend food,
tucked me in her bed.
If I could scream,
I would have.
But the nurse laughed
and sent me back—
back to the porch,
back to being a prop.

Some humans get it—
the ones not sucked into
porch décor mania.
They see the absurdity,
the creepiness,
the fake bird in a dress—
a horror in broad daylight.

One lady once—
stood before me,
squinting,
horror and confusion
in equal measure.
“That’s just wrong,” she said.
And it is.

The night the storm came,
I dreamed of freedom.
Rain pried me loose,
set me afloat—
but only a little.
I drifted,
briefly alive
in the gutter’s surge,
then found,
returned,
placed back on the porch,
scratched, dented,
spiritless.

Now, I sit—
watching the seasons,
enduring the elements,
the next round of tacky clothes,
dogs, flags, lights,
always staring,
never free.

I’ll never be more
than a gosh darn plastic goose—
costumed and silent,
guardian of fake welcomes.

And now—
you too can own this fate.
Order your own plastic goose,
dress it up,
display your devotion to all things ridiculous.
Because nothing says “home”
like a fake bird
with no soul
on a porch
waiting for someone
to see the joke.