She will say it’s not personal and she will it’s over
But this is not that story.
We were moving, with cardboard boxes.
We could not get at it with a broom, but
there was a bird dying for three days
in the chimney. I called the landlord, he said
the bird is already dead. The bird was not
already. The bird was not dead. The bird
spent three days dying. I was finished with school
in the house for three days packing with Led
Zeppelin because of the loud. So there was that,
the three-year old, the infant, me and drowning
chimney sounds: furious, then—
pointless. It was three days, each
with a little less bird, and a fourth day with nothing.
And we left after that day. We left the day after
the nothing day—packing done
I will always
hate Syracuse. We will never be friends.
Author Discusses Poems