The Kolkata Crow

The Kolkata crow, the pig of the skies,

squawks lazy abuse through the hazy afternoon

at a tarmac road too hot to hop on.

From his eyrie in a Peetle tree

that chokes a colonial chimney pot

he nibbles on the bleeding edge

of a finger that points

at the humans below who make patterns for gods

with an aerial view.

His nest is quilted with fake black hair

rolled into a bun

he found in the gutter

beside the coolie

who coils around his basket to sleep.

His feathers are lavishly oiled

without stealing at all

from the barber

shaving customers at the corner stall

tipping chins up to face the sky.

From up in his eyrie

his small, proprietorial eye

spies a pakora

dropped by a princess

pigtailed, puffed sleeved

who burns her mouth,

and screams at her ayah

who screams at the crow

who scared them both.

The Kolkata crow, the pig of the sky

puts down the finger,

pecks his pakora

ruffles black down

against chimney pot –

then oiled and bold

he crows

and pushes the bleeding finger

on the patterns of humans below.