In a tree behind the museum, a little birdie sings.
I am half sure it’s one of those installation things
that crazy artists put up everywhere they please:
mechanical birdsong drifting on artificial breeze.
Invisible little birdie will never be found dead.
Invisible little birdie will not poop on your head.
In the dazzling city of splendour sans reprieve
it’s no surprise I find it difficult to believe
that there’s a live bird in yonder museum tree
and it chooses to sing out of sorrow or glee.