Under the bridge over
the engines moving
towards tomorrow’s
skyscrapers
the people drive
Range Rovers, Escalades
their tires
singing of
reports and dollars

they’ve exchanged
cigarettes for pens,
whiskey for coffee

Not me though.
I collect black eggs
of invisible
cock-a-doodled
fowl

you go off the
clock
when your
ambitions invert,
rooms go quiet—
it’s all very
horizontal

feathers fall
around your
neck like soft
epaulets

they ask me is that
a chicken you hold
and I say find
your own damned
bird

Forum Comments:Black on black
Image Credit:Roger Doyle
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Maria Mazzenga travels daily from her home in Arlington, Virginia, to her job as a historian in Washington, D.C. and back again searching for poems in waiting. She’s been writing, publishing, and reading poetry for 30 years.

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