Prompts come before poems.
end of story.
"Write from the point of view of a birdcage whose occupant recently died."
It's so drafty over here.
But it's finally quiet.
No annoying tweet tweet SQUAWK SQUAWK.
Nobody to make me a mess.
I hope they're in a better place...
like buried in the backyard.
I'm clean now...they should have thrown a new one in by now.
Oh no!
What if they don't replace this round.
I'm too young (and beautiful) to end up outside in the trash heap.
I can see it now.
The vacuum cleaner crying her eyes out.
Star-crossed lovers, torn apart by the senseless casualties of parakeets...
Tragedy
made even worse by the two most bloodcurdling words in the world.
Garage Sale.
I'm going to be manhandled and pushed around,
picked up,
put down
drooled on by babies
dropped
and most likely dented by giggling fifth graders,
and eventually thrown in the back of some stranger's station wagon
promptly displayed in the corner of some hideous living room
with new squeaky residents.
