The Owl

The owl was swinging from the rafter beam,
Stale and oppressive air shut down our throats
While we were watching the dingy dust motes
Drift through the shafts of light like a bad dream,
And while our attitude was gaining steam
(We looked so good in our stylish trench coats,
And rattled off those Humphrey Bogart quotes),
We drank another coffee, double cream.

The owl's soft, silent feathers had been cropped,
So closely that, although it might still thrive
In zoos, or cages, it would not arrive
In style. We started singing, then we stopped;
I wasn't watching closely when it dropped,
But none of us could tell: was it alive?