Christ it's so early,
my hands are shaking with emptiness.
I need to fill them with a cup of warm
tea; I want them to find forgetfulness.
After two days of cold rain
my forehead is in a permanent state of concern,
forcing oil out of my pores,
and my hands are covered in it.

I'm exaggerating, slipping off track.
What I meant was, I'm nervous.
The silly bird of my affection
is silent. He choked on the seeds of confidence.
Limp in the bottom of his white wire cage,
the soft blue of his feathers
becoming jagged without anyone to preen them.

But the horror of his death,
is barely anything. All of my cages
are filled with dead animals. But the bars
don't stop the smell. It's not rotting,
it's more like sleeping, like a baby's hair.
I want to snuggle under their bodies,
and overwhelm myself with the warm fur.

Like I was young, and having the nightmare
about falling. Just as I hit ground,
I feel the plush body of Leopold the lion
gripped tight to my chest, and carry him
by the arm to the bathroom, thinking
I woke up because I had to go.