he lay in a bed at the Salvation Army
the last in a row of bunks he knew well;
through the window, he heard birdsong

not the lugubrious refrain
of mourning dove, but a song
he did not recognize, sad nonetheless

the captain brought him ice chips
and let him stay, for he knew this was
the closest thing to home the old man had

this and a spot under the bridge
he shared with bats, most springs
summers and autumns, until the first frost

never again would he be outside
never again would he see the bridge
never again would he leave this bed

how nice to have music
in your final hours, he mused, how nice
to have a bed and pillow to rest his head

outside the window, sitting cross legged
on winter's dead grasses, a girl played her
flute, unaware of the audience she entertained

she was young enough to be his
granddaughter, but was not, for his only child
had died of black blood cancer, when she was nine

in all his years he'd heard myriad
birds' song, chanting chirps wedded to
the winds, winsome, but not like today's trilling

what he now heard faintly, as if through
warm water, soothed him, lulled him closer to
a deep sleep, one he knew would come soon enough

he did not fight it--take a nap he thought,
when he woke, the lullaby would still be there,
white winged creatures would yet make song
though now in great flight, far from this bed