Birdhouse

I hope no one knows

about the yellow bird I keep locked up in chains

in my basement.

            No wait. That didn’t sound right.

I hope no one hears the bird

I keep locked in the basement

shrieking in falsetto for help.

Fluorescent feathers flying,

as the distress could be spotted

in the yellow volley of silk

and skin shivering in suspense and suspicion.  

It’s face, a once Post-it note blaze,

doused to an ashen moon pleading for

something other than the stink of

moldy, middle-aged basements

and damp air dripping of despair.

No, again that doesn't sound right.

Let me start over,

or by now do you, Dearie, think you’ve

single-handedly solved

the mystery that is

me

the bird-burglar

trying to gain access to the

bird-seeded ransom I could be swindling from

the Duchess of Birdchestershire.

Can you envision the broken shards of glass,

scattered violently on the vibrantly violet Persian carpet,

acting as a commemoration of my glittering entrance?

If I told you I wore a dark mask,

could you wrap your mind around

the shadowy shade I swallowed

in order to melt away my circled shoulders and taut tree lumber legs

in order carry out my nutty desires?

So now you know why my once prominent neighbor,

Daphne du Maurier’s* sweet sounding canary, Alfred* is missing.

For the sake of assured resolve and diabolicalism,

I’ll tell you anyway;

It’s all because we live in a world

where peanut butter just doesn’t

calm the cravings of this flightless felon,

as well as  Alfred’s infuriating flair for alliteration.