Rare Vogel


You are the walker,
I am the watcher.
You trod and throw
a glance at whoever’s willing to show.
I spy
with every inch of my little eye.

“Jeremy, it’s late…”
Those words abate
my dear bore who’s subtle hate
slips through her words:
“…do you still love me?”
I turn
to watch the herds.

You amble for air,
to give you peace from that Herr,
(though you’ll never dare
fly free).
But I won’t sit here and wince
wishing I could rinse
this debauchery.
Oh lust,
will you marry me?

You are the watcher,
I am the walker.
I pace
and try to retrace,
align all my mistakes.
Gawking and squaking,
like an ill-mannered bird,
you pick up the pieces
talking feces
about how you’ve inferred.

You know me,
but I don’t know you.
I know you,
but you don’t know me.