Old Bird

 

Old Bird is perched
at the microphone,
in readiness to speak,
fluffing all her feathers out
and pursing her small beak.

Tell me, Old Bird,
what to do with my heart
in this world
where being brutal
has been made into an art?

Old Bird tilts her head, perturbed,
throws a harried glance at me,
puts her cool John Lennon glasses on
to make sure she can see.

She thumbs through the Book of Possibles:

thumb thumb thumb.

Humans could save themselves
a lot of trouble,
she says,
if  they weren't so dumb.
Your heart, she informs me,
has a rubber soul.
It has learned to accommodate
the sorrow
of its growing whole.

But how will that help me bear
the inhumanity of man?
I ask.
Look through eyes
of love and peace,
she says,
and cherish what you can.

for Carrie at The Sunday Muse.  And sharing with earthweal's open link.