by Rickey Rivers Jr.
A bird perched on my shoulder keeps me company.
“Is his name chip?” was the joke you made to me.
I realized it applies more to you than me.
My shoulder perched bird sings, tells me all I did not see.
When we last met I did not know it would feel like my last breath.
My shoulder aches when tears are shed.
Drops are like rain from a high perch, all rather unbalancing in the grand scheme.
I stumble, break into unorganized patterns.
Feathers float. My bird has left me naked.
I cover myself but it seems not to matter.
Laughter has a sound like cawing.
Gnawing, gnashing, lashing, cat o’nine tails beats me frail.
I am caught up in a cage of feathers.
Whether I want or not is not my decision.
You’ve made me this way with hawk-like precision.
Rickey Rivers Jr was born and raised in Alabama. He is a writer and cancer survivor. His work has appeared in Royal Rose Magazine, Anti-Heroin Chic, Pink Plastic House, Marias at Sampaguitas (among other publications). Twitter.com/storiesyoumight/ https://storiesyoumightlike.wordpress.com/
(And check out Rickey’s poem Dust. – Elephants Never)