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.
