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Titmouse
Alvin Schnupp
You were released.
On a paved path you were found
no larger than a physalis pod,
absent feathers, your wings small quivering reeds.
You would not survive
on this pathway
of eight-wheel strollers, roller blades and skateboards.
A couple,
too skeptical, too chagrined, of my request refused me use of their phone.
The clerks at a nearby café
consumed by the pursuit of large tips could not be concerned with small matters.
I swiped a cup,
two-fingered a napkin inside - substitute for a nest.
The clerk at the veterinary clinic was unmoved. They were not equipped or had the staff
to care for anything but pets (and profit margin).
At a store smelling of aged suet, I purchased a carton of grub in a refrigerated case
near a Mondrian wall of aquariums.
A friend, known for mothering injured fowl, returned my call. “Do not feed the chick!” Keep it warm. Keep it warm. Keep it warm.
I placed in my hand
this life with feeble chirp.
May all the traffic lights be green.
In a wildlife rescue center
you were received by a nurse
who knew your pedigree: Titmouse.
“It is the season,” she said,
“Of lost and misplaced newborns.
In two weeks, we will be caring for seventy orphans.”
I filled out a card.
Weeks later, it was returned to me in the mail, with a hand-written message.
The titmouse you brought to us survived. Today
it was released.
Al Schnupp is a retired university theatre professor. Many of his plays feature female artists and activists, such as Peggy Guggenheim, Käthe Kollwitz and Ivy Bottini. Recently, his political satire ZERO and award-winning novella GOODS & EFFECTS were published by small independent presses.
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