The sky erupts in rabid, bright-green shrieking,
A bedlam which can only mean that harpies,
Descending on the prey they’ve long been seeking,
Have come to rend him to his very car-keys
Right here (of course) in Target’s parking lot.
But first”he heard this in some softer universe”
They’re going to drive him mad, bereft of thought;
For what’s that caterwaul, if not God’s curse?
And then, ah, mimesis, your name is parrot!
He sees the tiny, arcing flocks that croak
Across his line of sight, sees how they share it
At no expense, the raucous cosmic joke
In which they wink above, as he trails after
And watches fates fly off, to sounds like laughter.

Articles by Frank Osen

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