We were born into an idiotic age,
given only clichés to speak growing up,
warned not to change the words around
or otherwise stray from the script,
and we meekly obeyed, but today
a bird in the pine outside our window
piped a string of discordant notes
once, twice, three times, waking me
just before light with its haiku.
Howie Good dislikes author bios.