Me and my Crow

I once heard a poet say
that they had a kingfisher
beating inside their chest.
And those words intrigued me,
I wanted to discover
what beat within me.

So I carefully peeled back my skin
then peered into the cage beneath.
And that’s where I met
my Crow.

This wasn’t some midnight black
skull perching supernatural guide
and giver of sage advice.
Instead there roosted
a mangy feathered
crooked beaked
one eyed
Crow.

I asked it. “What are you doing in my chest?”
Its milky eye struggled to meet mine
then swaying a little
it opened it beak and burped.

I said. “Crow, are you drunk?
This is supposed to be a philosophical poem
and you are useless.
I bet Neil Gaiman
never has this kind of trouble.

The Crow burped again
then said. “You ask too much.”

“Oh you do talk. “I said.
” Answer me this, I’m confused.
I dissected myself
expecting to find beauty.
Yes before you say anything
I am an optimist.
But instead I found you,
my Crow.

“Tough.” Said the Crow.
“But seriously
what did you expect?
Anyway sit down
I’ve got a lot to tell you
and we have so little time.

Afterward I  sewed my chest back up
with lies and swore
never to let my Crow out again.
Unless I need to hear
everything about me
that I pretend I don’t already know.