Little Bird
Nov 2 · 1 min read

The dead little bird at the cross street
stopped me after work as I headed home
a car had rolled over him like a baker flattens dough
his feathers stained with the wine colored blood
glueing the little bird to the cold cement
Little bird, I’m sorry I couldn’t stay and mourn
my train departed in six minutes and if I idled
in the city street…


