Pheasants and Chicks
Turning and turning in a widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the center cannot hold . . .
from The Second Coming by W. B. Yeats
*
the pheasants bred
for the shoot
the cute baby chicks warmed
in the incubators
as food for the falconer's hawk
cling tightly
naively
instinctually
until the very end
to the hope that
the life they have
will somehow get better
we watch it when
they struggle
with each other
for the measly grains
dropped from
the keeper's hand
scramble in
the feathered scrum
for the few remaining drops
of clean water
we feel a certain pity
if we look
as necks strain
in the crowded heat
for a fresh breath of air
and we're never shocked
when they have the strength
in the final hours
to leap for freedom
when the cage door opens
and daylight comes
and unused and unformed wings
stretch for the light
*
what kind of sadistic
birdman invites
his childhood friends over
to watch his delight
in mashing living chicks and mice
in an unclean blender
to feed his falcons
maybe a spoiled little man
born to soiled wealth
who someday may become
a secretary of health
and what non-alcoholic sot
drunk on delusion and revenge
would be wounded enough inside
to put him in that spot
*
who are we
you ask
to dine on turkeys
at thanksgiving
then raise an objection
to the exercise
of second to none rights
how is it fair
you say
for us to point
a finger after
we have just returned
from shopping at
the kosher deli
just off delancy street
*
we share the same
foolish hopes and dreams as
chicks and pheasants
and are no better
bred for the pleasures
and perversions of the hunters
we hold now
deep in our bones
to the christian belief
we must be taught to fall in line
but never fly together
we pray each calamity
of immense proportions
will somehow peter out
and with a little luck
the henchman's death
will mercifully pass over
*
but it won't
unless we sharpen talons
strengthen wings and voices
rise as a great squadron
reclaim the heavens
and make it so