Soundzine

South Southwest

a yellow bus of enameled chicken feathers
hanging the air with post dawn smoke
the kind that once foreshadowed forest fires
heading south, maybe south southwest
the line of bird sanctuary marked on clawed maps
the soft-back chairs played unsuccessful roosts
more than a few eggs rolled up and down the aisle
like a bad pro-life commercial, tires slipping
on road gullet gravel, sparrows sojourning
for a night fix of nest twig, an occasional featurette
of string and second hand cloth, a mosaic
of unhatched ideas, a migration magic bus,
headed somewhere like guadalajara, where
bald eagles could slip quietly behind the national fabric
lick their endangered wings, form short term bonds
with long neck cranes, every chick on the bus
was whistling charlie parker, burt lancaster
played their imprisoned jesus on a portable tv,
unaccustomed to the heat, penguins went casual,
cardinals and orioles argued over musial or robinson
a few cardinals committing to john paul, some ringo
a magician’s white dove, sporting a false bottom hat
escaping with some unlucky rabbit’s foot
parrots desperate to forget ugly words

Being and Nothingness