David p Bates

D a v i d  p  B a t e s

the telegram that wouldn't sing

a small bird

comes through the open window

& flies madly along the perimeter

of the vaulted ceiling 

its left leg                 pecked away

to escape the trap of another dreary

                 love poem

it alights on the shoulder of the recliner

close enough to whisper in my ear

                        hops once for balance

    then explodes

in wet feathers & beak shrapnel