The Pheasant Above the Well

The beer is warm and the light is low.

The bird is perched where the shadows grow.

He’s got a glass eye that looks past my head

at a world where he isn’t quite finished being dead.

A little bit of sawdust is spilling out

from a split in the throat, near the beak of his snout.

The overhead fan makes a rhythmic click,

making the brown wing feathers twitch.

He looks like he’s trying to take to the air,

but he’s bolted to wood and the cupboard is bare.

I’m waiting for a ride that’s ten minutes late,

watching a ghost bird negotiate with fate.