Worry herself, that's what she does.
Tapping the top of the barbecue
lid, hoping it will open, hoping
there are bits of flesh
worth carrying
back to the hollow nest
where dependents
wait
wait
wait—
Shouldn’t she be
looking somewhere else
for what she needs? She won’t
find it there in the steel case
of charred remains.
Isn’t it true,
she could
tap
tap
tap
all day, nothing
would come of it.
shouldn’t she be pecking
at some earthy tomb?
Shouldn’t she
be grubbing around?
Why couldn’t she
be soaring,
showing off her red cap
like the scarlet letter she wishes
it would become.
Shouldn’t she stop staring in windows
that can never be forests?
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