The chick is a ball of flesh ,from a proud mama’s love,
In the wind of the wire , a home away from some trees.
The birds are mama and lover ,accountable to the chick
On the A.C. unit where they had brought it into being.
Chick waits throbbing in a plastic shovel ,dropped there
Into a new space of gravity, but a shovel is not a home
Home is up there where bird chick is franchised citizen.
A dropped chick is a throbbing mass of no flying wings.
A sweeping maid has her duty toward homeless chicks.
No wings , no fly but to die ? Maid drops the chick high.
O conscience beating in my bird, guilt at not doing thing.
A heart beating like a wingless chick in a cage of bones.
Why no cooing ,only high and flighty shrieks ,wing-fights
Above the A.C. unit , why this drama of feather-flapping
Finally why this silky silence in balcony’s higher reaches.
Here fingers fly on keyboard but soon doubts take wings
If the fucking mom has taken it in or has chick left its bird.
But I am not thy birds’ keeper, fingers say, keeper of own.