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Hawk Poem.

I hit a wall on hawk poems. I had to stop publishing them.... I just wish there was something else a hawk could do in a poem.

--Brian Bedard

 Of course it has wings, but they're faded as old towels
in the laundry,
 thumping around like a windup metronome just a few clicks from gone.
We've talked
about this. Money's tight but besides, haven't you grown fond
of the thuds as you would
a three-legged cat, that familiar pity that makes us feel at home? Do
you pity
the machine, as if, to wax cliche, the rusted combine abandoned in a
field? Birds
certainly don't. They fly about, drop number twos on our objets
d'art and squeal like ill-behaved children, which is to say all
 children, the very
reason we don't want any, maybe blasphemy to some but we've
quite comfortably into these conversations. We can't keep throwing
out good
bread, as much as we like a distraction. They accumulate on the roof,
the domestic
kinds: sparrows, blackbirds, blue jays, crows. The hawks were chased out
of town by white
flight developments and you, so informed, mourn them as icebreakers with
new neighbors
who, like me, don't feed idealism. Too many times I've been
the glass panel or fruit
stand in a B-movie chase scene, acute case of wrong place, wrong time,
though not
shattered or bowled over by some wood faced, one trick pony, but soiled
on by so many poets'
inspiration, the raison d'etre of ratty clothes I'd otherwise
throw out, though I'll admit
their nostalgia, when we first drew our lines of communication, awkward,
yes, but small
victories were significant in our campaign. I'll keep washing
whatever collects
or cakes on and they'll gray and soften like tissue, but even when
the color's gone
and the words are aphasic flecks still hanging on despite the
eventuality, we'll remember
those days and our purposeful philosophies, wonder, smirking, how we
ever said such things. 
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Author:Conatser, Trey
Publication:Prairie Schooner
Article Type:Poem
Date:Sep 22, 2012
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