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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 3842 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention Still Life, Cuckoo in Winter Emily Brink The cuckoo pretends not to care what we do; yet he watches us make love through the window. He bought a ticket to watch me ride. I feel so sorry for him: He can’t steal much from his dying perch. Does he think he is a ghost; a counterfeit of our past? He does not have access. He stakes his imaginary claim from an old, coincidental branch. We have ignored him, a voyeur in weird clothing. Olive-drab feathers bore; his song is overwrought and flat. Through drowsing, half-opened curtains the wide white distance is covered by the longest darkness. |
