bright bird
i thought things would be better
after the bird died, felled by the
fumes of the kerosene heater
we buried it with solemnity
and cried sadly with the secret
free thoughts one might harbor
if awakened all through the night
and early morning by What Is
Your Problem?
the only line the bird
ever delivered, but delivered
far too often and well
and we were sorry in that
uneasy, awkward way grief
is displayed when someone dies
you meant to be close to
but instead find a new zest
in living by their demise
and we were so happy
at first to be sleeping
like babies through the night
until we starting asking
ourselves the same question
and realized the bird had taken
that screeching one liner
from acute observation.