Emily Winters                                                                                                                

The Leftovers

Makeshift feather beds and harmless plastic beads,

Ribbons used to wed rusted gears and used to be brains;

Welded fibers all stuck together,

Glue leftovers feeding the masses,

As the children of the nest feed off of the fingers of the well.

The sick and the diseased,

The clockwork birds chirp to their own means,

And the lonely ones know not when to stop –

They think that someone will halt and listen.

Shuttering stops all along the walk(way)

The walking way they do their thing

That they do

But the birds can’t find the time to think

(But they can’t)

(at least they tell me)…

Hoping for a hand out,

If they do a dance,

Singing for the masses,

And crossing their wings for a chance.

Hearts barely beating, hardly ticking,

Their tickers defeated,

Too many battles at long last(?)

…

But no!

They fly in a swarm,

twitching towards the hazy, fog-coated sky,

knowing that somewhere out there,

hidden like a cache of gold,

there exists something called a “sun.”