Canto XV

The chip shop owner said he didn’t like them—
we shared the common trope on flying rats—
and yet we knew the probable outcome

for the wounded pigeon, now fodder for cats
or early rising foxes on the prowl.
I walked over to where the creature sat—

the urban sort, not regal woodland fowl—
the bright blood collected round its caved in chest,
the body broken up from wing to tail.

I wished I had the worldliness to twist
its neck until the small snap brought an end
to its convulsive, pavement bound distress.

I didn’t matter: suddenly it turned,
a full one-eighty as the spasm shook,
those few seconds were all it took to send

its birdy soul onwards. I almost took
a picture with my phone, but went instead
back to the shop to watch my burger cook

and tell the man the flying rat was dead.


1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    Aug 05, 2012 @ 23:41:50

    Wonderfully descriptive writing, I can almost here broken pinions fluttering against the paving stones.

    I especially liked the forth stanza.


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