Cat Or the Sparrow

"toity poiple boids, dehd upahn da coib, noh muh chiopin or boipin, or eatin doity woims..." I found a dead sparrow this morning, sideways on the stoop, strangely unblooded, gifted by clever cats, it fed my morning reverie, always heavy on my shoulders, in the early frozen hours, of frost's last gasp, my damp spring mantle, as I cling to a fading memory, of my father and his voice, slow step and aqua velva, now etched in lonely stonework, small words for larger deeds, and look at the small sparrow, with its lifespan like a handclap, and wonder if a creator, so vastly beyond time, just got bored with forever, and thought for shitz'n giggles, I'll make frantic mud men, amok among creation, with half-lives of remembrance, lasting only as whispers in wind, or one (maybe two) generations, if our names are on a label, or painted into frames, hung in plush hallways, ignored by commuters, too busy dying themselves, or just one of the unlucky ones, who bleed out on front pages, and wonder to myself, as I drag the last few gasps, from my cigarette of choice, if I'm the cat, or the sparrow.