The magpie
The magpie
with his sleek black wings and soft white back
hops onto the chair under the window,
listens to me rehearsing.
I look him in the eye and declaim at him.
When I finish the poem he hops up onto the windowsill, a bold
question.
with his sleek black wings and soft white back
hops onto the chair under the window,
listens to me rehearsing.
I look him in the eye and declaim at him.
When I finish the poem he hops up onto the windowsill, a bold
question.
‘Hey! What are
you doing? You can’t come in the house!’
He hops down onto
the paving and looks at me reproachfully.
‘Well... you
might make a mess. You might
poo on the table. I could
let you in if you promise not to
poo on the table...
or if you promise to clean up after yourself...’
poo on the table. I could
let you in if you promise not to
poo on the table...
or if you promise to clean up after yourself...’
He looks at me.
‘Or do you have
a
message for me?’
message for me?’
He looks at me.
‘You’re a
beautiful boy,
aren’t you? Look at that
beautiful back.’
aren’t you? Look at that
beautiful back.’
He picks something
out of the gutter and swallows it
then struts slowly away.
then struts slowly away.
I threaten him.
‘I’ll write a poem about you.’
http://mullamullapress.com/lemon-oil-by-jackson-mulla-mulla-press
http://www.proximitypoetry.com/
http://mullamullapress.com/lemon-oil-by-jackson-mulla-mulla-press
http://www.proximitypoetry.com/
Thanks Jennifer.
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