You asked me to have it stuffed for you – Chekov The
Seagull
I contemplate the
old tough seagull as he settles
on a
barge post at the wharf and craps com-
placently. (Volumes could be written but would be duller
even
than this letter home by me.)
When not post restant he flap-flops about
incoming
ferries but not expansively for one
at
home on air and land and sea. Designed
to be
more versatile than us, he lacks
sea-bird
acuity yet one-eyes me as if
that is
a plus. I snap him tugging at his scraps
while he views
me as taking him
too
casually. I sense he wonders whence
the
borsch he knows I ate will soon
need to evacuate. If you can think
about
it, all the whys and wheres and whens
of him
wear thin. Unlike the albatross,
so
enigmatic and austere (who
mariners
and poets tend to revere) my
tatty
scatty seagull with his one-eyed stare
craps
lustily and doesn’t give a toss.
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