Bird

I saw a bird this morning,
flapping wings, pitchy chirping.
It continues its charade even when
it has nowhere to go, no one is listening.
What abundance,
what exuberant wastefulness.

I haven’t slept in two weeks.
Doctors and priests confused,
flapping arms, pitchy talking.
The tiredness is painful,
but not as painful as my memories
of being a bird.
Now I stare day and night
out my window,
still arms, never talking.
What a desert,
what careful preservation.

I want to leave this window,
fly to an oasis,
then sit, quietly, on a branch,
hoarding the possible.
I promise doctors, priests,
and God,
if salvation provided,
I won’t waste what I did so proudly
in my youth.