Bald Eagle
The bald eagle becomes more decrepit,
Talons still brandishing its three arrows,
But the olive branch it long since let go,
All the while losing its grip, bit by bit.
Fanciers misleadingly quibble about
Whether the right wing or the left is best
To keep their bird flying, though, even blessed
With power in both, the body’s giving out.
Meanwhile its emboldened prey no longer
Grudgingly quails, turning a passive back,
Not only resisting, but will attack
Viciously; all the while feeling stronger.
Amidst blood and feathers, look closely, look,
It is not an eagle, but a lame duck.
D. A.
excellent poem and analysis. do lame ducks become dangerous when they realise what they are?
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