Sterile Tools

My feet tread the hardwood floor,

to look out at the cold morning light.

The sun reflects back onto,

the pristine white of the bedspread.

I had looked away and missed,

the crash of the bird against the glass,

but turning, saw it fall, land limp

like the body on the table – too still.

I break my fascination with the little form,

and leave the now-cold room. 

In the kitchen I find the radio,  

and friendly ambient noise

I sit, coffee untouched. Still.

Waiting for another body,

while my own is sprung with steel.