Kirby Wright poetry

The Bird Feeder

The man believes
He has spoiled the birds
By letting them gorge
On grains and oil-black seeds.
Now the feeder’s empty.
He knows the agony of expectation,
That he may be accused
Of starving his flock
For not re-filling their chalet
Mounted to the jacaranda.
Was it forgetfulness?
Or did the urge to control
Invade his subconscious,
A desire to flex
Power over dependents?
He hears ferocious flutters
And shrill calls of neglect.
He ignores these ravenous beaks.

Darkness slips under his skin.
He shivers and flops on the toilet.
The bamboo seat creaks.
Waves of alone
Pulse cold through his blood.

The man flushes and spies
Through his upstairs window.
A sparrow sees him
In this human cage, a prison
Without wind, steady sun, or rain.
A finch pecks the seed gate,
Rocking the chalet like a cradle.
This bird is a master of geography—
He leads his finch army
To a new feeder down the block.
Sparrows and doves dawdle
In the man’s backyard.
Sirens frighten them skyward.
They caress the sky with feathers,
Praying for a change of heart.



Kirby is the author of The Girl with the Green Violin and Houdini, a play that was selected for The Secret Theatre’s 2016 One Act Play n NYC.