Friday, May 1, 2020

Crow by John Freeman


A large black crow
beat me back to my
table at Hotel Bosnia
today. I found it poised
over my plate, wings
spread like elbows,
bent over the bread
and eggs, fruit,
things I probably
wouldn’t have taken
anyway. It turned
and met my eye,
those wet, black orbs
deep and limitless,
feathers oiled like petrol-
stained water,
daring me to fathom
what it meant,
knowing my hunger
was no match
for its hunger.

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