That Damn Bird Won’t Stop

The damn bird won't quit whistlingsinging bird
a bird broken record, without the crack
not a defect but a definite affectation
the same five notes like a child's rhyme
then the same seven notes for a chorus

 	the singing was a low moan like a growl
 	a smooth, watery, ketchup sort of growl
 	telling about flight and love and tension
 	something not quite in the song but there

Calling an entire imaginary bird army 
to charge and charge again, line upon line
great maneuvers in the crusade for affection
is the campaign lost or at a passionate juncture
where the bird then readies for a curious race

 	you could have held up the customers
 	taken every dollar and watch and ring
 	they owned and they would never have
 	known because the music arrested them

Surely the bird is stupid, like a dog that
learns only two tricks and neither anything
special that you would want to see repeated
the bird is simply caught in the nuances of 
its own two songs and taking pride in them

 	there was no mistaking it as something
 	from before creation and after the last day
 	the very heart and spine and glory of
 	a soul all that it is and was and should be

Next door is also a captive bird, a little wren
of some kind. Supposedly not as smart as
the parrot with its two memorized songs
the wren remembers none, so it is always
composing, always singing recreating

 	have you ever coughed up the spirit
        or felt it slide into your ears, scratching
 	or maybe you knew the tickle, nothing to laugh at
 	something to help you know love and agony

“Shut up!” she screamed out the window at the Cardinal
Singing with fondness to the glory of its existence
“Shut up!” she screamed again in volcanic anger
As a shoe flew out the window, end over end
missing the bird, leaving a fat dent in her car

 	you would not mistake it for affection
 	but you would shiver and quiver and shake
 	knowing you had to dance but very afraid
 	to do so, because you might miss the tempo

The thought feathered across my imagination
but left with the image of the flying shoe
there it was, the parrot singing its own special
love song perhaps to the wren across the way
i closed the door leaving devotion to be what it is.
That Damn Bird Won’t Stop

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