THERE'S ALWAYS ONE BIRD LEFT BEHIND

There's always one bedraggled bird left behind
when the flock takes off on its yearly
migration. A frightened pair of jeweled eyes
reflect the huge V-shape of departing wings,
then search the sidewalk for a piece of bread,
pecking at an old shoe left behind
by a man who was chased down Main Street
by a rabid bear, and will one day be President
of the United States of America.
He will tell the audiences at all his rallies
the story of his escape from the bear,
of how he lost one shoe as he ran,
and the audiences will laugh and laugh.
Their laughter will knock the birds
out of the sky. And he will tell them
how good it is that bears are now extinct,
that nothing is left on earth powerful enough
to make a man run down Main Street.
The bird picks up the shoe in its beak
and begins the carry it down the sidewalk.
The shoe is heavier than he is
with his hollow bones
that will make good flutes
for the savages inhabiting Main Street
several centuries from now.
It's 2a.m. in New Hampshire, and all his cousins
in the sky are going crazy.
at this point the town explodes upward
with blue towers of pulsating light.
The sky is a reflection of where he stands.