A Sparrow In the House
I’m dozing in front of the tube.
Then you arrive, like an omen,
like a spook, swooping from room
to room, landing in my potted tree —
in leaves you recognize
and try to hide behind
but don’t succeed.
Your eyes lock into mine.
You chill me, feathered friend.
We’re as close as birth and breath,
and yet as far apart as two things
born from eggs can stretch.
I can think, but you,
birdbrain, can fly.
So fly. Be free. Be gone.
Here’s an open door, now shoo.
God’s eyes may be on you, too,
but you don’t belong in the house.
If that means killing you, I will.
Law and Order’s coming on.
It’s way too late for us.
©James L. Ralston