Where bad poems come to die

 

Wings outstretched

with ease she glides overhead,

knowing below I walk instead.

Riding the currents

above pavement and weed

Never knowing the feel of shoes

or tweeds.

Her decisions are different

up there in the skies –

this way or that, not loafers or ties.

With feet outstretched

She brakes with her wings,

grabs onto the branch

where the Mockingbird sings –

But she’s gotten too heavy,

she’s put on some weight –

snap, goes the limb.

Oops, too late.