Missing Feeding of the Birds
Keeping my daily journal diary short
these sweet bird sounds lost --
reviews January through March.
Joy a dig deep snow on top of my sorrows.
Skinny naked bones sparrows these doves
beneath my balcony window,
lie lifeless without tweet
no melody lost their sounds.
These few survivors huddle in scruffy bushes.
Gone that plastic outdoor kitchen bowl that held the seeds.
I drink dated milk, distraught rehearse nightmares of childhood.
Sip Mogen David Concord Wine with diet 7Up.
Down sweet molasses and pancake butter.
I miss the feeding of the birds, these condominiums regulations,
callous neighbors below me, Polish complaints.
Their parties, foul language, Polish songs late at night,
these Vodka mornings -- no one likes my feeding of birds.
I feel weak and Jesus poor, starving, I can't feed the birds.
I dry thoughts merge day with night, ZzzQuil, seldom sleep.
Guilt I cover my thoughts of empty shell spotted snow
these fragments, bone parts and my prayers --
Jesus dwelling in my brain cells, dead birds outside.
I miss feeding of the birds.
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