It isn’t much I’ve seen,
just a couple sunsets
in the great grand
scheme of things.
Tonight I ask
where has the moon
gone off too.
It isn’t much I’ve heard,
just a city writing songs
on cracked apartment buildings;
it’s metal bow and streets of violins.
Tonight I ask
why have the birds
not returned for spring.
It isn’t much I’ve felt,
not shame for anything I’ve done
not guilt for anything I’ve said.
It’s bitter cold outside
there is a mockingbird
at my window blowing smoke.
Ben Paynter
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-mockingbird-it-isn-t/
