‘Tis a hot day in the city, ‘tis, ‘tis, ‘tis,
hunting feathers with wife number-one
(she of the Left Eye Lopes look
and a leathery-weathery time-worn ass,
and a heart big enough to thump-thump-
thump for tragedies and charity –
oh look at how she pulls her hand
away from far inside my fly
to spear and then tilt her open purse,
that coins drop down to a beggar’s feet).
At four-thirty or thereabouts, we’ll quit
and pool both bags to one, one, one.
My sweating bounty will be kind of meager:
lots of pigeon feathers, a seahawk pinion
from near the harbor, a chartreuse plume
of obviously appareled origin. I foresee
she’ll open up with something special off
a falcon and then a tail feather from a squawk-
squawk-squawking seagull, but just like mine,
her take will be overwhelmingly pigeon.