Saturday afternoon,
downtown and desolate
with cold night coming
in lonesome misty gray.
En route
beside the bank
I look on the sly,
work my looping loping
swagger,
Keith Richards style
in long glass panels.

There
upon the pavement
on her belly
rests a robin.
Her head follows
with one black eye,
the red breast pulsing
pit-a-pit-a-pit-a
all the while.
Wet has beaded
the yellow beak
and feathered head.
I touch with the toe
of my black-strap boots
push her just an inch or two,
and watch.
More time is needed,
and burdened,
I circle the block
three times,
toe her onto her side,
and wait.
pit-a-pit-a-pit-a, but
the eye no longer follows.

Touching toe to concrete
I rest the heel,
pause,
bring to bear my weight
her head, a grape
an oily stain.
gently,
I wrap her in the Daily Sun
return it to the bin
beneath the ATM.

08/09/2005

Author's Note: Doing what was required.

Posted on 08/10/2005
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