2014 #212

see it was against the gentleman’s leg
the touch of plumage more than brushed
as the lady feathering had been snug
against him and if not for the pink
receiver spewing mysterious hawk
squawks he’d take better note how

fanciful the incident really was, how
even more unbelievable
than his using ably a telephone
since this happened before
telephones were born

but there he was speaking into it
like a cool broker in silver
and gold patios
or fine-toned arbitrator
to flavorless dignitaries
or both in a way and having no time

to ask if the hawk on the other end
was not really a hawk
and why he trusted that voice
on the other end
saying it was a hawk
because how could he know it hadn’t been

a prank by a prankster
or a cruel surprise
by jealous competitors
who wished the lady with him had gone
to give herself to them in their bed
yet maybe they’d see they envied

the wrong gentleman
once they felt what this one
felt while he tried to carry on
a calm hawk telephone correspondence
which was more than mere plumage
but a sudden sensation

only a hellish frozen thorn
appending a female’s talon
could cause stabbed him in the thigh
and he felt at once
the sheet get thickly sodden
with what could be nothing but his blood

so he let loose the pink
receiver barely hearing the voice
of the hawk on the other end
squawking he’d be a smart man
if he’d put in pen
and on paper the hawk’s instructions.

That’s just the moment the lady
who’d not completely become feathered
was able to suggest the scene simply
had too many elements
trying to fit and thus
they were all a blurry mess.


About Timmy the Scribbler

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
This entry was posted in playing with prosy things, poetry and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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