Me and Dickens
       

I used to dream in bird language. Everything sound and
feathers, but now it's winter. You can't find many birds.
The snow's stained with soot and along the boulevard
the houses of rich men broadcast a blonde electric glow.
It's tranquil, but I miss the birds, the cheerful lunatic
birds. The flutey yellow ones, and the ones shaped like
green guitars.

Dickens said it. All partings foreshadow. And now the
birds are gone. The birds have flown away. But I'm still
here. Like Charlie, I ramble, drawn to the windows of
other people's houses where golden-haired children practice
their green violins.

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Copyright © 2017 Deborah Bogen All rights reserved
from In Case of Sudden Free Fall
Jacar Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission