The neighbors moved and left their caged bird.

I hear trapped flutterings all night.
The sound of fear and inconsequential life 
and hopeless thrashing.
No lift off, or soaring, or free falling rush.
Just crumpled wings and heaving breast pressed into spaces.
Last week, I remember their children taunting in a southern drawl, "Sing pretty! Talk pretty! Hey, sing pretty for me!".
pretty pretty pretty bird
During the day, I imagine a different struggle.
Manic preening and removing new-capped growth (some residue of hope?).
Pointless, yet constant. 
Of missing missing missing 
Hollow tubes for flight 
What used to be a cuttle bone now
monolithicly skeletal in its jutting from crap piles 
patiently quietly mocking us, in a language of 
empty, blazing-white promises.
Next to the smeary sticker,
fallen, it once resembled a mirror.
A second toy bent from its cheap chain long ago. No distractions now. No demands
other than the oppressive sound of 
and the remembrance of others' 
many needs.
The cacophony of terrified sound wakes my entire house; my would-be children get no rest.
I shake my head in disbelief. Those neighbors!
The smell hovering upwards to suffocate us all.
And gold turned tarnished black green
like the newspaper piled excrement.
mountains of watery birdshit. 
ever upwards.
Panicked, you attempt to create your own Zion. 
Panic-stricken we begin to climb.


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