There's a dead magpie on my filthy hardwood floor.
An omen
or an offering?
My malfunctioning mutt stares up at me expectantly.
Anticipating praise
awaiting adoration.
With morbid determination
and mortifying sensation
I place an old paper over the broken body
wet wings
still
sleeping eyes
and exposed parts
Gently pick the precious parchment and deliver it to the dumpster out back.
She follows, proud and confused.
I pat her on the head.
Thank her for being a dog.
Wash my hands five times.
Like it never even happened.
Write a contrite piece of prose
crush a pile of pills under an old fashion
sweep the contents into a tall glass of nameless liquor.
Mix
chill if desired
consume
enjoy.
The pile of harmless paper.
Injuring a thousand times.
Like wading through a thick forest of tall razors.
Every step agony.
Every sigh of wind a million lacerations.
A tightrope of red tape.
A mountain of molehills
waiting to collapse, avalanche
and engulf me.
I flick on the tube.
Nothing but reality, filtered, fractured, and faked.
I click and clack at the keyboard, but there too is nothing but silence signifying a fool.
There's only a dead magpie today.
To take me, even momentarilly,
from the wretched anticipation
of my innevitable fall
and starvation.
Literal, and metaphorical.
