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.