On the windowsill
looking in
one claw clutching the wooden rim,
the other tucked in beneath a wing.

Used condom laying on the edge of the bin,
its contents starting to smell,
its contents starting to stink
and dribble out upon the blue and black ink
the words he didn’t really think.

Looking in,
small, black, marble like eyes,
stretching out its wings
to fit the size,
of the window frame,
with one leg still clutching the sill.

Swig from a hip flask, followed by a bright white pill,
the numbness is ironically the only thing to feel.

Reaching out its leg, setting it down beside the other,
it leaves him now beneath the cover
that its shadow casts.