100 Seconds to Midnight
There’s a black wing caught in a tree
stuck between the eye of a needle
and the height of the tallest man.
Ornithologists can’t name the bird
because all they see is its wing,
fluttering close to razor wire.
Binoculars fog up from heat.
Stomachs twitch like hooked worms.
Town squares fill with people
wondering how much longer
the bird can live like that.
My son and daughter point to it,
then point at me, saying, “This is your fault.
Do something.” But I’m so deep in mud
I need help just to free an arm
and reset the time on the clock.
“That’s no excuse,” they tell me.
And they’re right. The day they were born,
I handed each of them a feather,
assuring them the sky would be theirs
once they learned how to use it.