Dec 13, 2010
or When Charity Bites Your Butt
Fourteen degrees. Though fighting flu,
I faithfully fed the finches,
for which it feels they fault me,
for they foully fight their fulsome friends
and even fuss at family for the final
inch of thistle in a frilly mesh of sock,
forsaking the full and fruity tube of feed
just fourteen flighty feet away,
for which I dared the fates and which
I filled with feed and fealty too.
Forsooth, for all I feel for finches now,
I might go fetch some fearsome, fancy falcon—
What a foppery of flutter then!
Let the flawed and fatuous finger-birds
philosophize again on flaws and filigree
and who flies fast and flightiest--
but first and foremost, who feeds what to whom,
before the final flocks are fed,
and clocks are finished,
and fates are flung afar.