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Chipped paint

beside the chipped paint of this aged
mansion a bird the
size of my fist when closed or shaken
in furious anger at

god for waiting so long to direct my life
sits on a branch as

thick and steady as a spiders web in a
heavy wind like a
tightrope walker it’s little muscles
taught like a spandex
wrapped present of athletic flesh
chirps with the glee

of a teen boy kissing his first girl or
boy in a car parked

among the garbage strewn flat lots of
the condemned movie

theatre the fist bird calls home stops
just long enough to

say hello and share it’s tiny song
before flitting off

leaving me alone


Image by Gregory Culmer.

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