The Birds Advise Poem by Alistair Graham

I sup my coffee as I pass by
empty bottles of fermented grape
Last nights vine plucked bare, no care
couldn't wait

The noon-sun is hot on the table
burning a history lesson
into the wooden slats
My overlooked cigarette creates
a smoking volcano
in the ashtray

Forty years old in three days
No mood for celebration
I will take stock I suppose and reflect
I will swallow a pill and wrestle
my being from bed each day

The coffee cup is drained to a drip
Brown droplets stain
the white ceramic
The rested cigarette has burned
to a length of ash finger

Birds are gossiping in the raw heat
I move slightly
under the parasol to eavesdrop

I think I know what I must do
The birds advise and go their way
A warm breeze reiterates in their wake
Clouds tumble in my head as ideas