There is a wayward crow

that I think
discovered cruelty

terrorising the dead
end street magpies

and lorikeets by breaking
their wings in a series

of pecks and taunts
warbles gobbled

in chortles before
the noisy miner’s

cop formations herd
the black one off

I race to the epoc holding
a bundi cudgel carved

to beat the demons off
I’m wearing boxershorts and grey

oversized longsleeve T grandma
picked up on sale with ‘Forever

Fearless’ bordering a lion’s
portrait passing as ridiculous

and I’m singing “Fuck Off Circle
of Life (never trust a man

who claims to be king)”
but I’m too late for the magpie

pup limping around the front lawn
this fucking currawong curating

on the wire right about my head
indifferent to this too-late-again-

aborigine who went on to write
a poem about the end of the

world and I had to let it go