Peter Sipchen
Diorama

The mockingbird, perched on a chafing dish,
stranger to dining rooms, blinks a liquid eye.
Blundered through a door ajar into exile amid
glass, china, finished wood, painted walls.
Far trees visible through a window, unreachable
as near bees bouncing on lilac blooms, mock
him. Is this death? A quick heart beats quicker.
His still, silent rage to escape. My tense desire
to help. Poised for a moment on the rim of a
beautiful uncertainty, we stare at each other
just before what's going to happen happens.

<< Back to Issue 15, 2012