I’ve piled my books high. Stacked them against the window. He pecks And he clucks. He’s the greatest company!
I blow dust off the hardcovers. He must think they’re sand dunes. I’ve mountains Of heaps Over which he bounces and skips.
“Shoo! Shoo!” He’s attacking me. He seems plenty cross. I guess he’s lonely. But hey! So am I!
I haven’t been outside In forever. He hasn’t been outside Since he flew in. He must, like I do, like it here.
I read him a book. He likes the tale; The one of the windborne bird. He seems not to like the one, though. The one about the caged singing bird.
I read a book. About sunlight And moonlight And about windows. For that’s how they come in.
And I’m curious. Curious enough. And so I set about with him flitting here to there, picking, unpiling, unstacking.
Most books I shove into a trunk. Some even manage to fit in the bookshelf. I use it mostly for things. Many things. And a book or two.
The window. This solitary window. I open. And there’s a flutter. He’s gone.
But when I leave the apartment, I always come back. I always come back because I’m tired of walking. So, I imagine that he will come back. Yes, he will be back, When he’s tired of flying.
Inspired by The character Lillian in Morris Panchy’s play: 7 Stories.