the poetry of Charles Fry

13 November 1995

I know she's crying cause it stains her voice,
but when she stops talking her lips don't even shake.
Just gotta be strong.
Like her one legged bird that hops around in the corner.
(She once picked it up by the wings,
but other than that it never flies.)
She leans forward so hard that a tear shakes loose and falls.
(We can mop the floor afterwards, and pet the little bird.)
Keeps clutching at the air but never can quite hold on for long.
Opens the window to clear out the place,
but doesn't realize it's getting so cold.
Bitter winter.
Still it feels so good on my parched lungs;
as if I were a fisherman waiting on the dock
to wee if it was a full moon yet.

Copyright © 1995 Charles Fry