March 16, 2015

Feed Me


Hummingbirds
feed from my hand,
fly up to my face
when I return,
as if to say,
where the hell
have you been.
They're tiny fans,
moving the air
with their applause,
barely here,
before they're gone.
Now, they expect
to be fed,
buzzing me
if I take too long.
It's as good
as any reason
to still be alive,
making me hurry
to get home on time;
they won't accept
my usual excuses,
just like others
who've left me
behind.