Poor Mojo's Almanac(k) Classics (2000-2011)
(published October 3, 2002)
My War with the Robins
Many things ravished me
Before robins ever did.
Dew. Crickets. The hallelujah
Of chlorophyll and flowers
Devoured in a last sharp gasp
Of the gloaming. Grass, of course.
I loved hiding in it, pouncing
On a hapless sprite— a hoppy bug,
A bird (lunch, my own
Green stand for salad. . .)
Or one of the magical kind.
In the supernatural case, palaver
Ensued. Oberon, Titania, Robin
Goodfellow all knew me for kin
By the shining in my eyes. That's
How I made my fortune— nine
Lives, seven-league boots, life
In the human world. One
By one, I won them from
Elves and fairies I harried
On the lawn. Fierce, feared,
Feral me— ogre of the back yard.
Sparrow fluffing in the dirt,
Bluejay on the bird bath,
Preening cardinal— none was safe.
I lounged and stretched, happy
On the warm earth. Oberon,
Hearing the birds' complaint,
Dispatched his messenger— this
Errand-boy, this passenger-pigeon,
This Puck— his charm is laughter,
A trick above my grasp. Fine
Jest, must be, to sic namesakes
On me— like harpies, squalling
Cheeps and pecks if I venture
Into my lost garden. Just because
I turned one chick, one robin, one
Simulacrum of a moulting dandelion,
To a ruin of feathers under the rose
Bush. It was an ecstatic morsel,
And what is life without some
Pleasure? I must eat. A cat
Cannot be kind.
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