It Passed

If he gave it to you raw, would you eat it? If it was empty, would you fill it up? If he tossed you one, would you make a pass? If it was dangling from the ceiling, would you knock it off? Take the stairs down to the basement, though it is cold and possessed with something thick. It is here where you would go for him, among boxes of linen and China plates collected. Pour a glass of what will burn you, for what of it if you couldn't before? Hold back that sense of accomplishment, it's far from grandeur among these floors. He was a boy from two towns over, who told his stories quite well. But every single one he told, had something said before. It was not what he meant to say or ever really had, but it in fact was truth in turn, for in the basement it was told to you. They were so tightly wound and wrapped- twisted between the ankles, kneecaps, waist and neck. To the floor to the floor, twirl around on the floor. Here they kept eating and filling and passing and knocking. And then this boy left. And broke a China plate. At the top of the stairs was a forgotten caged bird. She was yellow and was intended to sing, and so she did. Then that was it, but that's okay.