“I would always rather be happy than dignified.”
–Charlotte Bronte
He waits patiently in the parlor
like a forgotten Sunday suitor
as the yellow afternoon drapes
the room in dusty silence.
There is no dignity in sadness,
just sadness, a complacent yawn
alone. He peers from the window;
as the day’s shadows grow deep.
Violently trimmed to partially fit,
he forces his wings into a box,
so they no longer can do harm,
then walks across the room
to sweep feathers from the floor.
(October 31, 2016)
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