by chip ( MeisterC at rpcs dot pvt dot k12 dot md dot us )

It soon occurred to him
that the bird was not his own.
He flexed the empty limb
that used to hold the telephone.

And the engines of a cry
sputtered slowly into gear.
Words crackled from the sky
to his ineffective ear.

And the ring that was to hold her,
it was sitting, lying, there
like a sore and stiffened shoulder
in immaculate despair.

The nagging doubts flit by him.
“When will summer come?” they said.
He unpinned all his hopes then,
like a helmet from his head.