Morning calls the jay bird now,
his blackened eyes, widened brow.
Perched upon a sturdy bough,
Searched the lawn for morning chow…
I mean, what to fuck?
Are you kidding me?
What was God smoking?
He creates this beautiful thing
to stun the eye and beautifully sing,
to take flight on feathered wing –
and all for what?
To eat bugs?
I’m finally going to call this thing.
Monday morning quarterbacking.
That was just a bad call.
I’m not saying that you’re not omnipotent,
and all that.
Just that I would have played that one differently.
© 2014 John Allen Richter