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Trouvée

Elizabeth Bishop

Oh, why should a hen
have been run over
on West 4th Street
in the middle of summer?

She was a white hen
--red-and-white now, of course.
How did she get there?
Where was she going?

Her wing feathers spread
flat, flat in the tar,
all dirtied, and thin
as tissue paper.

A pigeon, yes,
or an English sparrow,
might meet such a fate,
but not that poor fowl.

Just now I went back
to look again.
I hadn't dreamed it:
there is a hen

turned into a quaint
old country saying
scribbled in chalk
(except for the beak).

Added: 2 Mar 2002 | Last Read: 12 Dec 2018 11:10 AM | Viewed: 6513 times

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URL: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/3032/ | Viewed on 12 December 2018.
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