C.W. Bryan Poet Free verse

It's Not a Bluebird But It's What I Have

after Charles Bukowski

No bird lives
in my heart. An 
inhospitable place, flooding
every morning
with curious
blue blood. 

The bird I know
lives
in the park or,
the zoo, or maybe
the splintered telephone poles
on Cherokee.

He does worry after
me, though. I can
hear him, his corvid
questions, “when 
are you quitting cigarettes? when
are you making that
cranberry
and arugula salad?
did you have that
dream again?”

I used to worry after
him, too. Human
questions like, “where
do you go in 
freezing 
rains? did you ever
know your 
grandfather?
have you ever been sad?

But,
today I saw him pull
an apple slice
from a torn,
plastic bag. Now
I know he’s never
shed
a tear in his life.
Just like he knows
that I’ll never eat
cranberry
and arugula salad.

We lock eyes in 
the park. My heart
pumps blood. Then—
again.

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