There is a bird who lives in my walls

There is a bird who lives in my walls

I know this because I can hear him

rummaging around day by day

rustling

chirping as I step outside in the humid midmorning air

But I can't see him

There is a bird who lives in my walls

but surely he must leave, sometimes.

Otherwise he could not live in my walls

Unless there is another world in there

a plant, perhaps, a sapling

a pile of dirt with worms and ants and potato bugs

A puddle of water from where the gutter drips down between my wall

(his home)

And my neighbors wall

(an empty room - I would not know if there were birds in her walls)

because there is no one there.

There is a bird who lives in my walls

maybe a couple of birds.

As the days go by, I presume,

yes. there must be other birds.

Otherwise who would he be talking to, my wall bird?

unless,

he is talking to me

I'm in here alone too, after all.

Has he seen me, without me seeing him?

I am envious.

There is a bird who lives in my walls

and uses all the discarded rubbish piling up along my sidewalk for his home.

dry grass and dust and hay looking things

The things that trash men don't take,

but dissapear from day to day

he takes it into the wall

and builds a city where the rainwater drips down into the small dirt pile

where it waters the sapling

where a potato bug digs a few inches before hitting concrete, redirects until he finds a crevice, then continues tunneling

where benign mildew lines the building's aging architecture and sweats when the weather gets too warm

There is a bird there.

There is a bird who lives in my walls

as the sapling takes root and presses steadily against my floorboards

destroying my foundation without anyone knowing

since it is on the inside,

between my walls and my neighbor's walls

(where no one lives, and no one has been for six months) 

I absentmindedly attribute the bowing of the hardwood to the repeatedly spilled contents of a water bowl

as the bird builds its nest inside the tree's first branch

I have not seen it

but I know it is there, when I hear the leaves of the sapling rustle and move in the night

and I sense the potato bug meandering under my floorboard as it carries the pile of dirt farther and farther from the space between

my wall and my neighbors wall

where the rainwater drips down.

There is a bird who lives in my walls

as the rainwater pours, now, loudly between my wall and my neighbors wall

(it has been empty for three years now)

the sound of a small waterfall behind where my floorboards warp

I have never seen him

or maybe I have, somewhere else

(when I used to go outside)

but I never see him come, or go, just

the chirping and the fluttering

and the potato bugs crawling

(everywhere) 

in the city they are building under my feet.

the roots of the sapling poke through my floorboards, but I do not care

because they are the same color as the floor boards, and it rather suits the space

There is a city within my walls

and I wonder, why has no one noticed

this place is not mine

I wonder, for a moment, if my neighbor is still there

The empty space of my neighbor

or if the bird has become my neighbor

If the city has become another world, encompassing me as I listen

for I rarely go outside anymore.

The sounds of the city drives me mad with curiosity

as it forbids me to bear witness to its unfoldings

(save for the root)

which has stretched a meter wide into my living room, anchoring my table to the floor

I let it, because it matches the table

and it rather suits the space.

There is a city surrounding my walls

a constant humming of energy around me as I stare at white plaster, which has slowly worn brown and green with moss and mildew and starry eyed beings that stare at me, sparkling with water droplets I no longer know the origin of.

the rain flow never ceases now, a constant stream into the pile of dirt which has become a fine layer of topsoil visible through my rotting hardwood floor

the roots of the sapling have ensnared my bedposts

and climbed up my cabinets, securing them closed over the years

I leave it be because the wood of the sampling matches the wood of the cabinet doors

the potato bugs crawl into my cupboards

and I let them

because they rather suit the space, better than I

There is a city

a small fleck of peeling paint, drooping from the ceiling where the water pours in

from some place beyond the leaves, over me like an offering

the birds chirping, invisible to me beyond the overstory that towers above where my ceilings used to be

the potato bugs trek underfoot and I can sense their invisible tunnels

as the arms of the sapling entangle themselves with my limbs

the cracking bark of its branches pairs elegantly with my own wrinkled carapace

so I let them encircle me

because it rather suits the space, better than I

I hear the water running and the tip toeing and the rustling

I cannot see

The bird who lives in my walls.