The dumb

bird sits

and sways

on it's

splintered

wooden bar

and sings.,


one song

one voice

over and

over again.


like a

prisoner

sentenced

somewhere

between

5-10.


parole not

an option

newspapers

and seed

cuisine


a blessing.


and by

some miracle

we share

the same

love life,


looking

out at the

world

between

bars with

no Walter

mitty in

our souls.


he has

no excuse

to this

evenings

night and

stars.


and I will

just wake

up one

morning

and find

him dead.


and envy

the dumb

bird

who never

learned


to fly.