The egret takes flight with my bus fare in its pocket
across the river while swinging to me
Tarzan elopes with a single white she-male

The talent of the poet is downgraded to the skink
compared to the undulating elaborations of the snake
like an etcher on linoleum cross-hatching an illusion of depth
that dazzles the amateurs’ eyes in jars of wept ink
where dusky black-faced men perform choreographed
back-strokes to the tune of I’m Dreaming of a White Dixie
turning into bushtits who fly and hide
under my Frigidaire and chirp, “We’re all cockroaches here!”
but when they emerge they are nothing more
than three men requesting beer and change
I have the former, explain about the latter
One of them whips out a Colt M4 Carbine
Another bellows, “Pull!”
A fire burst skyward perforates my rooftop
and the third man trots away on all fours
to return – a blood tattered egret
limp in his guilt-grinning jaws
“Go through its pockets,” the armed man says
he turns the muzzle my way
“And you… into the ink pot!”
I dive in pursued by whistling lead.


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