saturday morning
dead bird at the front doorstep
—a juvenile house wren
the cat’s at the back door
clawing at the weather stripping
as if it’s a sheet of rock
there’s a mess to be cleaned
[well below my feet]
either in the laundry room
or the opium den
door shuts
& I tell myself
the bird is probably just stunned
in the living room
my dead mother is reading a thriller
the rocking chair slightly
rocking
to give her more light
I throw open the curtains
october two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
jdubqca 