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.

Published by J M Greff

J M Greff is the rambling author, trucker philosopher, peace loving hippie, spiritual warrior, backpacking pantheist, wandering minstrel, and poet fool who created A Caravan of One for you. View all posts by J M Greff