Tommy Melvin '16
In an orange tile kitchen, all shadow pushed to corners,
a bird-cage is sitting on a newspapered table.
Rain falls, and the tin roof rattles and pops.
The water is washing the dishes.
The food is feeding the canary.
The broom sweeps the floor, the mop wipes it clean.
The whistle of the canary in its cage.
In the next room, the weather report,
it’s a re-run. The whistle of the canary in its cage.
“Yes, tomorrow’s forecast is rain, followed by
years and years of teeth. Melting back to gum.
Years which cinch. The waist of things. That come and come.
And speaking of rocking to death in a hammock in the
sun. Speaking of asleep on a yellow raft in the
pond. Speaking of lemon-forests and a bright squint of sea,
that is a nice thought, yes, but
yes, tomorrow’s forecast is rain, followed by
blue skies which will never quite catch up,”
and we will grow old like this rain turning to hail,
and that bird will beat against the cage bars
its golden-tufted skull for you.