Days of the Heron

In the days

of mumbling saucepans

and sanity,

I was a heron,

drinking down dirty daydreams

and lavender teas,

slurping loudly

through my pointing bill

in coffee shops

while the regulars stare,

squawking out stories

on the subway,

ruffling my

untamed and unframed feathers

like the jostling sounds of newspapers

by the old grey men scrounging round for

the stock market stats

and sports scores.

I tend to creep

in and out of people’s habits,

smuggled in with the groceries:

cinnamon toast and juicy grapefruit,

standing awkwardly

in the cobweb corners of rooms,

watching contagious

interactions,

hearts bleeding in rhythm,

then slip softly

between the window panes of

dark purple bedrooms

with swords hung on the walls,

red dining room spaces

where the piano sits,

uncaressed for years,

yellow kitchenettes

collecting dust on the picture frames

of happy faces by way of trips to the park

on a fourth of july,

and moldy peppers

in the bottom door of the refrigerator.

Oh,

and if I could just

be held by the night,

it sinking in between

my shivers

till the yawning dawn.

I took myself

away from here,

in the eerie morning hours,

after getting out from under purple fleece covers

and giving up on sleeping.

Careful tiptoes,

out the window,

face to the forest line

til she sings in my ear,

into the moon’s naked riptide,

inhaling one beautiful

burlesque breath,

exhaling storms of ice.