I have a Condor in my kitchen.
I feed him on rancid meat
from the new butcher across the road.
My friends say he is an ugly bird.
I say, it depends how you look at him.
My condor is called Fred.
His droppings are pungent and acidic.
Fred is always disturbed when I clean them up.
Once he tore a piece out of my right hand
in protest. It left a ‘V’- shaped scar.
Since then I tackle the operation
only when he is drowsy after a big meal
and I am feeling courageous.
He has wonderful eyes:
eyes that are harsh and unremitting.
He does not pull tricks.
He eyes me indifferently.
Most of the time I readily admit
that he is master of the situation between us.
I am content that he consents
to live in my flat, on his pile of sticks
above the geysir.
Since he nested there I have had to heat water
by other means and take cold baths.
The arrangement suits me reasonably well.
Fred insists on one flight each day.
He returns punctually – sometimes
with a pigeon or a cat – at dusk.
I will be sorry to see him go.
In effect I know what that will mean.
HE will be the survivor.
My bones will be as polished kitchen tiles
by the time Fred has finished me off
there on the mute-stained linoleum.
