The emperor has no clothes out here,
and barely bothers making way
as you power down the bitumen
and it powers through the flesh of the battered roo.
But whatevs. It’s the crow I love the most.
Besides the eagle, other nobles too:
the hawk, the kookaburra…
—all a little regal, a little proud.
But I love the clown the most
—its ludicrous sunrise moan-squawk,
its black coat keeping the night alive.
The crow is the troll of the animal world.
Perched on its jester seat,
it twists the peace
getting the nobles back
though they can’t quite tell.
As the hawks and eagles and others
prepare themselves to be brilliant,
the little nutcase groans with laughter:
“That’s it,” it cackles,
“Get up you stupid bastards.
Salute to the orders of the day.
Live your life as if it’s yours.
Just how much have you won
that you must now rush around?”
the clown that trolls the morning in
the subtle genius
—as light reveals the stage for the day—
that we’re all