I think about the sparrows
still falling from the sky,
from that poem I once read
but couldn’t quite understand;
something about loneliness,
tugging mercifully at the old
heart strings like a good vinyl
playing in the background of
a coffee shop while it rains.
Or maybe it’s only projection;
self-acceptance of a battered
lonely heart unable to write,
unable to sing and fly, like
those broken fallen sparrows,
crushed beneath the weight
of sorrow and a writer’s pen.