fed the birds
my monday. held out my hand,
and fed them mirth
from a lifeline pun.
blackbirds.
early morning
connoisseurs
i fed them

my monday.
all gone pecked. now, first suspect -
in a ****** of crows. i rose
from the damp. surveyed
the scene of the crime
and bled. no contest
nor are there ribbons given
even if you don't
want one. you'll find
another monday
with a stray
dog star... a crown
for a chipped
tooth.

it will always say  " You shoulda'  seen The Day Before...."  then promptly -
plop on your stoop... and vaguely,
as if seen from three paces
behind stained glass...
Sunday sulks into view
like Dostoyevsky
belching "Hey Jude" backwards,
just strolling down
East, Main street
with an egg-cream
and a fist of
kettle corn.

soggy in his meaty paw
an earlier downpour
you slept through.

or maybe, this just happens to me ?

now then. birds fed,
i wandered off. biting my
upper lip to keep
Christmas in
my Edelweiss
grip.

left the birds a book called " How To Fly "
and they still flew
away.