The Poetry Society

 

I've seen a phoenix on a telegraph pole.

It swooped down and landed apprehensively on my foot.

 

Its left wing is injured, the tarnished gold feathers torn and stained with dark blood.

 

I tried everything, plasters, warm water, antiseptic and bandages,

But it stared up at me as if to say:

It will heal, you cannot help.

 

It made a nest under the stairs

Made of shredded paper and cushions.

Its wing has not healed

And sometimes you could hear feeble whimpering.

 

If you wanted to help,

I would bring the poor phoenix to your house,

But instead I will leave my door open,

And see if you will find the twinkling eyes.