This bird’s about dead, I said,
As the damned raven raised
Its ruffled, tussled head
To stagger across the parking lot
Like a frat boy after a kegger.
Feathers blueblack
Like comic book heroes’ hair,
But paltry and perilously hanging
From an Ichabod Crane frame
That bounced in the Oklahoma breeze.
This bird’s defeated, I repeated,
And then the sad sucker flew,
Weak wings perhaps just enough
to prove a faithless poet wrong.
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