do the birds still sing outside?

In the middle of 

an ordinary empty room

a naked sunbathing animal,

a solitary figure soaking in the

lonely interrupted by a single sunspot:

a hopeful hole punched into

a cold blue box

Do the birds still sing outside?

Not here, not 

on the walls of the walk-in cooler

necks snapped feathers plucked

prepped for front-of-house fine dining

They must be hard to hear over

this familiar deafening roar 

of the unsettled mind,

an unsettled eye turned from the 

yellow sun-toned glow

a palliative remedy, 

a band-aid-on-a-bullet-wound.

This blue will swallow me whole.