My canary he died last night.
Suffered from a fright.
His hanging cage was jumped at
by my neighbor's curious cat.

His songs were always moving.
I heard it every morning.
A voice like chords from strings
in strains that come to sonnetting.

A trowel my father used
as he softly prodded and mused.
Buried the lifeless bird
in a handful of dirt.

A pinch of bread held by a stick
with bite marks from his tiny beak.
Some water left inside the dish.
A meal my lovely never finished.

But the tragedy of it all
is as he came to a fall,
his final song
wasn't that very long.

I never gave him a name.
Always thought it would be lame.
But in death, I call him Gerald.
Poor, sweet Gerald.