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
bird dead.  
                                             I will always
hate Syracuse.  We will never be friends.