Elliott Coleman Mockingbird

by Dermott Young

Young poets
Come with bird faces
And manila folders
To my 43rd floor
Armchair perch.

They bring me songs
Of blinking stars
Of warm and beating hearts.
Dry-eyed,
They study me.
Quietly, with ease
I caress each piece
And blink at each darkness.

Once I sang wholeheartedly
Gentle hymns in battleground trees.
Once I cried the old hen’s rage.
Once I screamed back
The anxious yowls of fattened cats.
Once I was down in the garden
There, beside the uncut spikes of purple foxglove
That now abide,
Now tired,
Still purple,
In the porcelain vessel beside me.

 
 
Dermott Young is a writer and birder who lives in California.

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