Uncurated Freedom (Day 9 of 1462)

Who
are you,
so blithely reaching
small, manicured
hands deep inside
the kindness of
uncurated freedom?

You who,
some decades past,
walked
in my steps (and I
in yours),  through
locust-lined arteries
between fresh endings and
tired beginnings—your friends
my acquaintances, my friends
your downfall?

Who, within
your yellow-breasted nest,
do you assume
yourself to be: a rooster
ousting night,
highball at hand,
and thunderstorm,
and kite?

You, lionized,
enthroned, too
high (you think) for anyone
to see
you hoarding scraps lethargic
pigeon-feeders toss,
as they amble by,
remote, books open, reading,
mouths buttoned (with love),
in case they find
your boastful crow
emerging from their
fragile, ruby throats.

Who?
Your porcine eyes
belie an unquenchable appetite
for shining, sleek,
suburban luxuries
amid Napoleonic splendor.
Neither history,
nor future, when you
peer, reflect your face
in their vast, silver spheres.

Just now, just
here, you are
a flash
of recognition
in our eyes—squared off
against the truthful
and the true.
You will, when old
is new, still not arrive,
and will, once disembarked,
remain unmourned.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six