Carthage and the Crows

Outside, in the gutter beside the sidewalk,

A coven of crows is at it ---

Cackling, cawing, complaining,

Sparring with one another over the delectable innards

Of a mashed squirrel as if

Death were a birthday party.

When Carthage goes to his window and raps on the glass,

They don’t bother to look up.

He’d like to take out his twenty-two

And put a couple of them down,

Interrupt their clamor decisively.

He knows though that presidents

Can’t step outside and commence blasting crows.

Presidents have better things to do.

The world always needs fixing.

Carthage goes back to reading the comics ---

What used to be called the funny papers.

They aren’t slap-your-knee funny any more.

They’re more like clever, more like a quick smirk.

To tell the truth, he doesn’t even get some of them.

Carthage likes to watch simple people do stupid things ---

Walk into a wall or fall down a flight of stairs.

He likes adventure, too, men flying little airplanes

Through electrical storms and landing in jungles or deserts

Where fierce natives gather around the smiling, plucky pilot.

Those were the days.

Now a man can’t even step outside and plug a few crows.

Carthage tries hard to ignore them

But the comics don’t make him laugh and he hears

The crows’ crazy, raw voices, each one insisting on its right

To devour the dead and war with the living.