Leveler Poetry Journal
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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.




Daniel Marsteller