by J. B. Sisson

The day my wife’s due back from a long trip,
I’ve stumbled on the soft corpse of a thrush
beside the morning paper at the door.
An ant was walking on an open eye.

This portal death was quite an awkward shock.
“That’s what you say to people after death?
‘Goodness, that’s awkward’?” Holly Martins quips.
This I won’t mention when my wife comes home.

From majoring in the classics years ago
she notices ornithomantic signs
though she’s not superstitious, nor am I,
and yet I’ve dug the thrush a secret grave.