Intact

I found a dead paper bird on my kitchen floor. 
It had been lying there for some amount of time. 
It was dusty, 
but still intact. 
The delicate creases of it’s wing joints 
were lifeless, 
squished a little, 
and flat. 

The bird was folded from lined paper, 
a project for bored hands. 
Hands that should have been writing poetry.
Hands that should have been creating something 
that wouldn't look dead
when it died.  

The roses on my windowsill are dry. 
I haven't smelled them in a while.

Occasionally the wind will force their perfume
into my nostrils
as I lie in bed. 

I am always lying there, 
always waiting for roses.
Waiting for the infrequent smell 
of dead things,
to be blown 
into my living nose. 

Am I a dead thing. 
Am I a little bird, 
that fell trembling to the floor
one lonely day in winter. 
Were my joints creased 
with too sharp a nail. 
Will I become bitter and sad 
and fragile, 
when after a long time forgotten,
by the tea table,
next to the heater,
my body is found again, 
a little bit squished, 
but pretty much 
intact.