We walk through lines
Of rocks, asphalt and memories
Nothing to caress the injured birds
That fly, drug-dosed, and wandering
Maybe that’s why they’re delirious
Smiling and crying, before the eyes of Christ
Maybe that’s why their thoughts scorn us
Because they know our bandages must suffice
If we cover the wound
It isn’t there . . . Not in sight
But, it throbs us a post card
Reminding why it hurts at night
Stale comforts come, washed away soon
Belittled, berated, and that phone never rings
Twitting and flitting little injured birds
Land among the thorned olive branches, she sings
Back at us and tells us we’re not one of them
Well, that’s okay, we’ll never be
I’ve noticed bandages weigh you down
And birds can’t fly without wings, see?
And we all have to thank you
So, thank you
Yes, thank you
For pulling out our feathers
For detaching our wings
For giving us the crow
That constantly sings
So out of tune
But, she’s got wings! She’s got wings!
And she pretends to live like Christ
And the phone never rings.