In a flock on Market,
just below Union Square,
the last to land
and standing a little canted,
it teetered -- I want to say now
though its hardly true --
like Ahab toward the starboard
and regarded me
with blood-red eyes.
We all lose something,
though that day
I hadn't lost a thing.
I saw in that imperfect bird
no antipathy, no envy, no vengeance.
It needed no pity,
but just a crumb,
something to hop toward.
Gary Whitehead, A Glossary of Chickens: Poems (Princeton University Press, 2013)
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