It is all right to ignore it because that’s what you do with what’s under the bed. You do nothing to it, there’s nothing to it.
To sit by the window and pretend the coo and ruffle are coming from outside, to shush the cat.
Spring comes, and against all odds is a skycolor and a time tantrum. You could stay shadowed or suspended.
Under the bed you’ve made the wrong nest.
Like all newborns they come out gooey and crushable. They hold their mouths up to the world. You use your eyes to satisfy another hunger, staring at rooftops.
You sprinkle seeds and trickle milk, you feel like the sky.
You hold the box and wind down the flights to the courtyard. You say I am the mommiest and find a shady corner.
If there had been a hatchling hospital; if there had been time to prepare; a swanning or a pigeon-hole.
Back in your room you read parables and cookbooks. You insist responsibility is the same as response.
You fall asleep with all the drawers open, the feathering far off.