the blackbird

your cup is cold
in your hand
as you sit at
the table with
the open window,
there are no
children in the yard,
it's the middle
of day and everyone
is at school or
at work. the tea
is pale and weak,
without taste.
there are no lemons,
no spoons of sugar
near, the newspaper
spread out before
you is stale, as is
the new book of
poetry you bought
with some hope
and promise. your
cup is cold in
your hand and
the blackbird peering
in from the tree
says nothing with
his blackness, but
i assume if he could
that he would agree.