Most poets are swans

               BUKOWSKI

It was you who told me about the starving

man and his two friends, shivering through winter

in a dingy room. He set out on Christmas Eve to find

a swan. Swan, goose, turkey, it was all the same

to him. Just imagine the man, his heart shaking,

climbing the park gate, lurking in the bushes

by the lake, lying in wait for its stately arrival.

How did he catch it? Easy, an unsuspecting swan,

expecting to be fed. It must have caught on at last,

fought back, bitten him black and blue. What a commotion

that must have been, the screaming bird and its furious mate,

a great clatter of wings. After he had wrung its beautiful neck,

how did he hide it, carry it back? In a shiny black

bin-bag, I expect.

One swan left behind in the icy Serpentine. One

would do fine, more than enough to feed the friends.

Carted home in a bus,

plucked, roasted, eaten. Afterwards,

the man sat back, a good host, his guests fed.

He wiped his mouths and told a few jokes.

That was where your story ended. But now I think

that after the hot dinner and the long evening,

just as he was about to turn in, the swan inside

began to sing. Inside all three, the sweetest voices,

in harmony, began to sing.