Unwelcome There
I sing the woes of schoolyard crows.
You are no more bird than balladeer,
Crooning sonnets you compose
From gossip of the vanished year.
The gate I crossed, and now am lost
A guest where once I bore a name;
Iron bars are now with lacquer glossed,
But I am still the same.
It grows late to be without a nest
Do we return then? Do we dare?
My guilt hammers at my breast;
You and I, we are unwelcome there.
So sing with me, you sable host,
Of lessons from the years long flown—
For I, like you, am but a ghost
That haunts the yards where I was grown.
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