Bird house

House stirs at the sound of mewing alarm clocks.
Two cats circle, look upwards - winking, tails flicking,
calling for milk with a side of feathers.
From nested bed I hear sounds of morning.

Mother chirrups quietly waiting for the click
of the kettle, the billowing steam.
Clangs of teaspoons against the steeping teapot,
shaking of cereal boxes and the slurping of poured milk.

Father wants toast, waits impatiently
with buttered knife for it to rear its dark crust with a phut.
Victory whistles, shrill, haphazard – bird tourettes.
Unable to sit still he’ll soar out in pursuit of shiny things – hobbies.
Later perhaps some selfish mealworm snacks.

Brother will not surface.
He only talks in slammed doors, mating calls –
Liquid diet, up all night
Beady eye trained on a sparrow landing lightly,
lovely lust interest, bouncing out of sight.

Mother’s left in her world of lonely routine.
Tail feathers sweep the floor as she
nudges at cushions. Fluttering out she’ll search for
necessary nest things to clear the domestic debts.
Dirty breakfast things left smelling fresh
soaking in warm foam.

A house so familiar, too small.
Sharp pecks ruffle feathers behind closed doors.
Outgrown your ways,
you’re weird, think me snobbish.
Big bird, small nest but
that world out there has no address
like this. Blink back the tears,
we’ve got different visions -
all a little older.
Just strangers in the day,
rubbing at each other.