I don’t know how these poets can
filet a dove and skin it; flip it
a metaphor for freedom or fortune or
the fleeting nature of grief;
I’d rather skewer a sparrow
and put it on a spit.
For years, I’ve watched the crows go
from lamppost to roof
from suburb to cemetery
from plot to plot;
Relegated to roadkill and the grubs in the lawn –
A poet could do something about these crows;
I’ll let them talk amongst themselves.
(C) Madison McSweeney
Originally published in Bywords, July 2018