This is a penguin. He stands atop a graveyard of bones.
It’s pleasing to attach to the black. To the white,
a relief. This penguin wears a mask to hide his shame.

In the air, a piercing chill. Nothing can be forgiven in an
icebox of memory. His father and his father’s father
at his feet. The composition descending into blame.

In the notes it says: write about the dead bird.
The point of a beak buried in an attic mattress.
Feathers still, oiled. Like a painting of the same.

Hard little lines of truth form here, from which
a penguin would dare not stray. The metal supports
of a deranged umbrella. This penguin knows the game.

Now the dead bird begins his speech, entrenched
in coat and matching tie, as shadows pool on
fact-drawn maps and swiftly stake their claim.

This penguin is the dead bird now. He’s swallowed
whole his attaché, looking down the loaded barrel of
who is right as our lives spin backwards in the drain.

(after William Steig’s Spiteful little man | About People, 1939)