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Crow
a crow
gray
uncharismatic
coarse, hoarse,
no la di dah
about his unblinking spectatorship,
hands in stained tuxedo pockets
is watching
my attempt
to write
a poem
looks
like
a
long
black
worm
to
me
he remarks
in F sharp crow quizzical,
spreads sudden magnificent
wings, sails down,
beaks a fallen pecan
and flaps off
to a nearby telegraph wire
he does what he knows best
just opens his jaw
and lets that pecan drop
on some obliging slab of concrete
to burst apart
in beak watering fragments
now it’s my turn-
there!
© Johnmichael Simon
2007
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