A Crow’s Wink–A Poem

I hurled tater tots off the jetty.

Damn it felt good! (Try it.)

The gulls took to the tots

like a jet on a strafing run.

(I always was shit for similes.)

I placed coleslaw atop a black boulder.

A crow landed, gobbled up the slaw,

and flew away with the toothpick.

He had it between his teeth.

He was Groucho Marx.

Yes, I saw that!

It wasn’t a poem.

It was a crow flying with a toothpick in its mouth.

He winked at me as he flew past.

The wink is the poem.

No one who hurls tater tots off a jetty

makes it as a poet in the New Yorker.

Until now.