O Bird

I curl myself up close, deep into the corner of my bed,

and then I feel the buzzard’s beak, rapping on my head.

‘O bird, piss off,’ I say, ‘it’s late, and I need to sleep.’

I look to it, but see no bird, and scratch my hair and try to keep my mind at bay.

I pry myself, miles away, from my sheets. In my back I feel a crack.

It moves across my spine, alongside it’s quick lanky legs, they flank my sides.

Rolling over like a dozy stoner.

I shield myself from blaring digits, my alarm, it curses me!

Black feathers flying over,

glazed over,

purple walls.

I hear the early morning calls. I curse the birds and cry for sleep!

‘Try to keep your racket down’ it’s late at night, I’m out of town.

‘You won’t get any help from me. ‘

I hope.

That I and all who read, may understand what depths

there are from which we are to cry unto thee.

I’ll catch it one of these days, ’That bird!’ I say.

But morning calls, under another long stiff gloomy daze.

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