Two Weeks

The feeder lay on the fire escape,

knocked over by the wind,

seeds hardened in the rain—

nobody's breakfast,

my responsibility.

I watched pigeons circle the cracked perch,

heads cocking at the empty space,

and felt the weight of it:

how easy to let something slip,

how easy to forget

when nobody's watching.

Two weeks I'd left it there.

Not malice. Just the way

you stop seeing things

until the moment you do,

and then the guilt comes thick

as those hardened seeds,

inedible, wasted,

a record of days

I'd let go.