My Little Bird
Oh, how I always hated that nickname.
I'm no bird.
my song not sweet;
my eyes not kind;
my bones not weak;
nor my neck so quick to break.
I don't belong in your pocket
or cupped softly in your hands.
I will not sit nicely atop your finger
nor will I perch kindly on your shoulder.
Although,
if you truly wanted, Dear, I suppose I could be your bird
but nothing like the sherbert-colored lovebird you're thinking of.
No --
I'll be your magpie,
your raven,
your vulture,
or worse.
I'll peck those baby-blue peepers from their scarlet-red pits.