He should have known. Instinct and reflex
Earned twenty five years without an accident.

His gin and Lipton reeks of last night’s
Swing shift. The chill of morning
Cloaks the back porch where he sits
Marred by the memory

Of pink slips bright against
Blue-stained coveralls.

Another sip and a body falls
From the gutter, wings folded

Into itself. There is no flight,
Just a bird
Nestled by stick fingers.

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