Postcard
Earlier lying around the yard
We had just begun to feel being eaten
When Tyrus chanced
Upon the decomposing owl.
He held it up in the sun:
More beautiful than words! we agreed.
But this before us other two
Had embarked on that mundane but fatal errand—
The rusted station wagon pausing
Aside the sandy highway,
Its chancy crew,
The baby backseat moaning,
Our teeth gritting as Tyrus never knew,
And finally, when already having made the turn
Off Folly Road back into the neighborhood,
That half-smirk clipped instantly flat in the rearview
Suggesting sobriety
But meaning something rather opposite that.
By then the owl’s feet must’ve nearly finished baking.
Through the years they were the envy of all
Who chanced to pass,
Perched in eternity upon the parlor wall.
But as for luck they never proffered any,
Tyrus, alone, would sadly recall.
Earlier lying around the yard
We had just begun to feel being eaten
When Tyrus chanced
Upon the decomposing owl.
He held it up in the sun:
More beautiful than words! we agreed.
But this before us other two
Had embarked on that mundane but fatal errand—
The rusted station wagon pausing
Aside the sandy highway,
Its chancy crew,
The baby backseat moaning,
Our teeth gritting as Tyrus never knew,
And finally, when already having made the turn
Off Folly Road back into the neighborhood,
That half-smirk clipped instantly flat in the rearview
Suggesting sobriety
But meaning something rather opposite that.
By then the owl’s feet must’ve nearly finished baking.
Through the years they were the envy of all
Who chanced to pass,
Perched in eternity upon the parlor wall.
But as for luck they never proffered any,
Tyrus, alone, would sadly recall.
Earlier lying around the yard
We had just begun to feel being eaten
When Tyrus chanced
Upon the decomposing owl.
He held it up in the sun:
More beautiful than words! we agreed.
But this before us other two
Had embarked on that mundane but fatal errand—
The rusted station wagon pausing
Aside the sandy highway,
Its chancy crew,
The baby backseat moaning,
Our teeth gritting as Tyrus never knew,
And finally, when already having made the turn
Off Folly Road back into the neighborhood,
That half-smirk clipped instantly flat in the rearview
Suggesting sobriety
But meaning something rather opposite that.
By then the owl’s feet must’ve nearly finished baking.
Through the years they were the envy of all
Who chanced to pass,
Perched in eternity upon the parlor wall.
But as for luck they never proffered any,
Tyrus, alone, would sadly recall.
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Daniel Marsteller
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