Regret

A pompous little bird, plucked and plumped with pruned and primary blue feathers,
How arcane and inane it looks as it perches on a pleading sapling
branch on the centerpiece at the table;
-Little, damned bird-
Silly wormy head cocked to the side and cocking ever farther as the
second hand drags it's way to a second second position
(Now, Sir, would that be three before the One
or simply the next second position?)
See its blind little wonky-eye, such a dead stare, a thousand yards away
from this unpalatable thick fog of silence;

The down on the breast is a wreck of bug riddled folds and unfurlings,
the talons are worn away, rounded off and seem to be cracking at the
root;

The second second on the clock has drummed loudly and creaked to an
eerily quiet stop;
All eyes are fixed on the bird
Excluding mine:
Mine are looking into my hand
at the pads of the fingers
that just touched the lips
of the mouth of a man
who just threw up a bird
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