Everyone within my orbit, entertains their brain without going out a door; but
Also not by turning pages, playing games or having conversations, nor
By exercising (thumb scrolling replaced park strolling, lawn bowling,
Boat rowing, as well as the chance to duck when someone shouts,
“Fore!”)
“Just as guilty,” I mutter, “clicking-links instead of playing them as
before—
Staring at videos, instead of venturing outdoors.”
Endless escapades of police escalating, arresting, and murdering, brigades
Of the innocent—and shooting grenades at
protestors—all while dressed for war.
Angrily I close the screen; clearly I’ve again consumed too much
caffeine
While researching ‘failed vaccine’ (“un-be-foreseen” said a president I
abhor)—
Heretofore the supervillain, with henchmen claiming they adore
His every stupid step towards trade-, class- and race-war.
Having always been a corvid ally (ravens, jays, and the occasional magpie)
I restock the feeder and contemplate, my neighborhood’s winged-dinosaurs.
“Tell me something good.” I grumble, at a black corvid beginning to
fumble
With some jerky, crumble-jumbled. “A great song . . . from 1974.”
“Did you speak aloud?” I stammer, “Or, have I—now
got—a brain tumor?”
“. . . By Chaka Kahn . . . I’m pretty sure.”
Self-sanity test, preliminary: pose a problem to-yourself without
tarry.
143 times 17 is my query. Now, fingers in ear-canals, listen for
Anything—muffled or not; incorrect or not. Naught is heard and nothing more.
Now to those within earshot, request an answer you don’t yet have. Implore.
“Please tell me your favorite foodstuff, something found in a grocery
store.”
Its beak moved as I heard, “Tuna . . . preferably, albacore.”
“What’s your name?—once finished talking, I’ll buy some without balking.”
Pausing its pecking, it hopped close and stared with such intensity and vigor
I forgot our conversation, and became lost in its feather-sheen and
respiration.
“My nation calls our own name . . . when we meet I say, hello Köal-Lor.”
“Hello Veach” I reply with a smile, “no need to remember names
anymore;
With how many of my nation have you shared your lore?”
No longer snacking,
Köal-Lor croaked at an encroaching corvid’s braacking,
Which caused me to wonder if human yakking was already a thing of
yore.
Curious, I said, “Hello, Veach” to the newcomer; it replied, “low, beach.”
“Xss-Tarè has no cross-nation speech . . . only emulates,” said
Köal-Lor.
“Many copy . . . only a few of my nation can both think and speak in yours.
I ask you not endanger my life by telling others . . . you are number
44.”
“Query,” (black-eye to eye-forlorn) “Why’re so many faces under full-adorn?”
“New disease,” I say, “Airborne—called
covid—some protect with face decor,
Stay apart, travel less; others express hate and fear; some oppress; most
stress.”
“Our battle against life’s unkindness’s . . . always ends in death . . . closed door.
You call it corvid, though?” “No, co-vid without the arrh; a virus we
abhor.”
As the corvid began to soar, I swore, to bring albacore—tomorrow, for sure.
This homage to Edgar Allen Poe's The Raven obviously doesn't have an attached covert video. If you've read this far, expecting to find a video, thank you for reading my poetry and viewing my photo-collage; sorry for the misleading homophone-title.
similar creations:
Mess of Pottage (meal of stew)
Work in Progress ... Interesting Times
image excerpts by:
Amanda Owen, and
Austin Granger
(website)
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