Gathering Worms With the Birds
I lie awake- still-
as frozen as the marbled
statues in the alcove.
For to move would mean to think,
to think would mean to feel,
to feel would mean to weep.
The sun gods moan, shaking off
the remains of a pallid sleep.
Once more, light jabs my body, so
with a slow twitch of eyes, and
faint sighs in my ear, I breathe.
Remembering the day before and
the day before that, plays a
grievous groan into morning's voice...
the organ that grinds out woeful chords.
Even the blue-wings and red-breasts
are somber, with heads tilted to earth,
but at least they are content with worms.
One cup of coffee followed by a smoke,
and the day spins off into robotic motions.
Sad news swarms the t.v. like angry bees.
Sirens scream down the street, and
headlines plead for justice,
for everyone is hurt.
Mudslingers spew words, spoon feeding
moon faced fans stale hors d'oeuvres
and goblets of cheap wine.
But no bones are more trampled than mine-
stripped bare, then pulled back to endure life,
or so it seems. Tears and pity parties...
but sorrow gets you nowhere, so with
brush through hair and over teeth,
off I go to gather worms with the birds.
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