Little Bird Dying

he looks at me
like i imagine
new born birds
look at their
mothers

skinny white
grandad
with the sound
of oxygen tanks
echoing
throughout the room

has mum
had her dinner yet
he asks
with eyes the size
of starships

it’s ten p.m.
and he lays in bed
fully dressed
the button hole of his
pants holds the pin
of his belt

slowly
but surely
dying