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The Bird That Mocks Me
It perches on the roof
of the empty house next to mine
like it’s replaced its owners.
It opens its beak
and out spills a sound -
not song,
but scorn.
Each morning,
just after I’ve convinced myself
the hour belongs to me,
quiet and alone,
it begins.
A chuckle.
A cackle.
A loud, mocking laugh -
as if the idea
that I might be at peace
is intolerable.
As if it must guffaw me
back into misery.
I know it can’t possibly
be laughing at me.
It doesn’t know who I am.
What I am.
But still
it torments me
like a trickster god
cursed never to touch the earth,
finding a fucking loophole.
I look up.
Loki meets my gaze.
And shrieks.