Ode to a Bluebird
There's a scared little boy that lives inside of me.
But I pretend he's not there, pretend he grew up.
Yet, I can hear him crying now as I write this.
But I’m too tough for him. So I beat him down and flick his ears and tell him to be quiet before someone hears him.
And the strangers I meet never know he's there.
But late at night, when it's just the two of us, I let him out and tell him that I know he's scared, but not to cry.
And when morning comes I put him back.
And we subsist like this, with our
shrouded understandings, and it’s enough to make a man weep.
But I don’t weep.