… with a dodgy last line …
Poem #30: Birds of a Feather
I’m not supposed to write these poems.
I should be writing prose:
dull memoranda, letters, tomes.
Without these nothing goes
the way it should. This bureaucrat
should make her letters march
to drums so ordered, rigid, flat,
they coat the ear in starch
like stiff dress whites. Instead the words
that chirrup from my pen
are chirpy, feathered, bright-hued birds
that fly. What to do, then?
