Birdhouse Poem by Daniel Y.

A matchbox home.
The treehouse has no sales tax.
The one-bedroom with a view.
Its thatch rug pricking thorns
and blanket keeping warm.
Surrounded by the watching eyes of Bast.
Does she bear the ankh or a scepter?

A tabatière musique with a whistling Bubo.
Its precarious vertical mast,
and finger-sized ring.
Embedded with a robin stone.
A fallen patch of sky.

The river crypt, falling west
like the setting sun.
Prospering, with worms a plenty in
the afterlife.

The drag queen dad
with mascara lines
peeks at the hatchway.
His blue feather coat
and talented nails
secures tumbler with thunder-cloud down.

The evil eye brings Kamikaze
the blue mime, does karaoke
Worried about the change-maker
picking from this little purse.

This manifest destiny can only last for forty days.
The ground-spaghetti, morning steams.
To be free of the world on fragile wings.
How the worms wriggle and writhe.

A new Odyssey across an ocean Styx.
The queen returns from his wash basin.
The Cuckoo has stolen a lifetime.
The cat plucks up another jewel.