In a garden where nothing ever grows.
Only a forlorn bird, small fish fan of a tail.

Two propellers as wings, only flightless.
I feel myself a ‘kiwi’- the odd one whom

Omniscient Judas in the sky robbed of its tarred feathers.
Subsisting on the lyrics of predestined songs, I lost my way.

Fans called wings propelling me nowhere, nearly extinct.
Avoiding that leering lizard that loiters lost in a Garden of Eden.

I see him: performing pushups as if the finale of a mating call.
He is looking at me and I, him, in this quiet time,

Long ago begun upon abandonment, thinking past
A famous one who once said, “I began to write poetry to woo the women, ”

Knowing as I write this my men will disappear.
Such is the wisdom of a flightless bird.