The Gypsy & The Bird
You can’t leave, without
a home to first abandon,
said the gypsy to the bird.
Flap your wings, you will see
there’s no place where you and me
cannot be someone’s King
or someone’s Queen.
But what will we do
before those stations yet unfolded,
said the bird
as he pecked at his prey.
See it’s not the destination
that gets my feathers aching.
It’s the miles in between;
so vast and lined with graves.
I’ve heard of other birds
who’ve fallen out of favour.
Ended up with beaks
buried in dirt.
The gypsy shook her head
until he’d ceased his pecking,
and she spoke with words
that crunched on dried and hollowed earth
Would you let a nightmare stop
a lifetime worth of sleep,
or the foulest sound
deafen calls of future love?
If you still need my preaching,
you don’t deserve that second serve
of skin and hair.
She raised a cracked and leathered hand
silencing surrounding air.
Let me promptly speak my mind,
before the hot sun leaves my words
with no passage to be shared.
See some turns I have skipped
might have led me
to this ditch. But if given
another heart, mind and body,
those same open paths
would bear no footprints
of my making.
Claim my words as lies,
kiss them from my tongue.
This train we’re riding holds none
fearful of its carriage.
Save you.
Her hand fell resting
on a chest, a flattened rose.
That bird he cocked his head
in a manner that suggested
he’d seen two worms making love.
With a single beat of wings
he relinquished his seat
and flew far from the train
with the gypsy and the damned.
Later he’d return
and finally enjoy his meal
in peaceful solitude.
B.M. Stower