An image of you getting drunk,
fucking that guy not your husband
with your best friend in the next room.

Put it plainly, February, fifty degrees,
making the birds wake up early,
the songs they sing are tunes

I'm never able to recall afterward,
although I know them as well as my own.
I don't believe birds are smarter than me

just because they live outside,
rarely seem to carry a grudge
or worry about what happened last night.

I don't even know what kind of bird
I'm talking about, perhaps I should
describe one, dress it up

in a black tee shirt, baggy jeans,
drop it down on some parking lot,
hand it a pen & paper, ask it

to write down what the hell happens
up there in the trees, how long
is this weather going to last?

© by Bob Rixon
Stuttering 9-1-1