Bleak as the splat of the just-fed bird’s dropping
on my lime green dress of cashmere
whitish liquid dripping its way down
what had been a rarely achieved
elegance. Omens are no rival for blindness.
That royal raven chased me out of its court
sent me running, frightened and foolish,
sure it was happening, unsure I wasn’t making up
a story to tell later, the foreshadowing
we count on, the crumb trail link to the next time
this flawed heroine fled an angry squawk, staining
far more than a sweater dress that warm spring day.
What can I say? Brilliant! Such fun imagery!!!
I love this poem!