A Bird At My Window Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

A breeze clicks
and whispers
in a dancing wind

from the trail
of a far-flung gale
on an elephant's trunk,

a swelling elephant
ambling on my sill,

as my window is fattened
into a big beast
trumpeting, trumpeting,

as a small gold-crested
finch takes over
and punches out

a message flowing
with a river
of wind and breeze

and arrows shot out
from its mouth;
and catapulted
into my drifting room

by the clarinet
of its shrill tongue:

(ii)

Bundled into the wing
of a sprinting wind
I've been swept here
by a sun-rayed drizzle.

I have strayed
into your home,
my only couch
a stretching window sill

carrying me on a feathery
slippery stool,

your apron too steep
for me to grip
with my tiny sun-manicured
fingers and less gluey wings

only skidding
off with me, as I tumble
and flip over,

while you lie down
with a hippo's caved mouth.

Hey, your apron
stretches out no hands
to me, as I slip off
a pane
without a staircase,
as I toboggan

down your sash lock
and grille,

flying off into a thin tree
only to be soaked
like a blotting sheet,

as you giggle
and cackle at me
and shoo me off.

I steer a heavy aircraft
of stringed gales
swarming through air, my home,

while you roll over
in the stretcher
of your breezy couch.

I'll peck off your molars
and the your grainy teeth
if you laugh at me again.

(iii)

I hardly can catch
the bird's message

drowned by a bouncing
swelling hurricane,

its twitter
melting into a breeze
in my couch,

as I stretch it out
to a broken
brittle rocker,
unbolting not even

a small angle
for a shrinking bird
quivering
with homelessness.