Sorta Kinda Haiku

Wednesday, April 18, 2018

In a big flock,
even pigeons
look beautiful.

Ineffectual,
I lie in my sickbed
with cats.

Short walks in the sun--
these glimmers of joy
will have to do.

Bleary and dull,

moving through life half asleep.

And yet, there are cats

and the sound of rain on a roof

and the smell of fresh apples.

When I die, I hope crows

eat my eyes, and somehow absorb only

memories that made me laugh

and that they live on

one last time

in the crows’ cackles.

After I die,
I hope crows
steal my trinkets
for small children to find
and lose.

It feels like
slogging through muddy swamps
wondering if they're quicksand.