The Crow

The emperor has no clothes out here,

just wings,

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

into knots

of screeches,

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 crow:

the clown that trolls the morning in

with anti-beauty,

the subtle genius

reminding

—as light reveals the stage for the day—

that we’re all

in fact

clowns.