it’s chinatown, baby.
the hawk
my gut was filled with an awful feeling
that this time– wait. you know what?
the backstory, to be honest,
is irrelevant here.
you do need to know this, though:
i needed to feel better
than i was feeling,
and the only thing that could
make me feel better
was a hawk.
jody, a spiky-haired guy
who used to live in my parents’ building,
had one.
when we were younger
(younger than i remember us being),
we’d use the hawk to send notes to girlfriends.
i made the phone call,
and we caught up a little.
he was doing pretty well for himself.
the next day, after i got out of work,
we went up to his roof
with this gorgeous bird of his,
its wings spanning like a motherfucker
while it rested on my arm.
i handed the hawk a note–
something i would never let anyone read,
told it to “get the hell out of here,”
and off it went.
the wings on this creature!
the nerve of it!
when jody’s hawk returned an hour later,
there was a crushed mouse in its beak
and a proud look on its face,
but i didn’t know what to say to that.
my note to no one in particular was gone.
by the time i returned home,
it was after midnight,
so i kicked off all my clothes
right there in the living room.
later, i would go up to my bedroom
and lay flat on my back in bed–
the bed where a family was started,
mistakes were made–
and the foot of it,
where our dog,
that lazy labrador retriever,
would sleep.
all day!