thin air.

Crows in the kitchen.
Happened upon them as I was about to fix myself a coffee,
walking barefoot.
There’s nothing wrong with crows, I don’t think.
– – –
How they got into my kitchen—a mystery.
But they’re here. A dozen?
Picking up food from the floor.
Except—there’s no food on the floor.
– – –
The crows’re all lined up,
as if around a man lying prostrate,
toeing his body-outline
invisibly chalked on the tiles.
They’re stabbing their beaks into the air,
seemingly taking bites out of nothing.
– – –
There’s a crow with a broken beak,
the lower part almost falling off.
It cannot get near the ghost body,
trying as it might to push near it,
it won’t succeed.
– – –
I grab a teaspoon and slowly squat
near the invisible body-outline,
next to the crow with the damaged beak.
We’re both expectant.
– – –
I carefully lower the spoon towards
and into the non-existent body
and scoop out some juicy pretend-flesh.
– – –
I slide the spoon over
to the crow with the broken beak,
exhaling, hoping
it will take what I have to offer.
And it does.
– – –
It dips its mangled bill into the spoon,
it rests awhile,
then picks out of it
what is not there—
but might as well be.
– – –
Then the crow with the broken beak
tilts its head towards me and says:
“Just how much longer, do you think?”