by [email protected] (Patricia Rogers)
I tried again today.
I tried so hard.
To make it right.
But even as I tried,
the bird died.
The little bird you left behind,
without a thought,
You were all she had.
But she was only a bit of color,
a splash of emerald green,
to set off the reading nook
in your trendy loft
on your upward climb.
I hear you've done your new flat
in uptown silver and grey.
Lots of glass and steel.
Not the sort of place
for a little emerald bird.
She knew you weren't coming back for her.
She stopped singing
a week before she died.
The old man at the cleaners
said he saw you last Friday.
Said you came to pick up your suit;
Said you had two afghan dogs;
on a double lead.
Well behaved, he said;
a matched set.
"Very uptown," he added
as I turned to leave.
I didn't have to ask what color.
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