A DEADLY BALLAD
Paul Weinman
Propping a dead sparrow
against a backyard rock
I sighed for forgotten fathers
gestured them up from graves
to form a marching band.
Salt is spread on streets
to slow decay, add taste.
Wives of a few howl
hang stained bedsheets
from lightning-struck trees.
As soon as tubas are set
the bits and pieces of men
parade off in random rhythms
tunes no one can remember
make heads or tails of ...
much less, whistle.
