I Don’t Think You Will Ever Fly Because I Don’t Think You Believe in Wings, But That’s Okay

Oh, I read your poetry
and like it and then learn
you are eighty-three-years-old.
Your poetry is a fine nest.
I see you in black and white.
You have a giant head
like a baby bird, a nestling
with white tufts.
I only just discovered you.
I worry soon you will
be pushed out of the nest
of your poetry and die
there on the sidewalk,
prematurely scrambled,
if there is such a thing
as being “prematurely scrambled”
at eighty-three.
I think there is.
I hope you stay in there.
I hope your eggshells
keep you warm.

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