Discomfort

​My gargoyle posture guards a screen
that shows me whatever I tell it to
as long as I can stand the pain.
Immobility means my left leg shouldn't feel
added pressure, because there is no such thing
as more when nothing is moving.
I am a screech owl with a broken neck
only capable of turning thirty degrees left, right fifteen.
Vulture wings clipped before I can remember,
no feathers remain on my body. A stiff wind
blows from the inside out, shivers
what muscles remain. There are not many
bone structures my age. Most have succumb
to bombing runs. Not sure if the pilots were righteous
or just out for fun. Something about being stuck
without help, at risk to the consequences
of natural disasters that might occur inside my room.
Hey, spiders have been known to tap dance
across my desk, others atop my head,
but always before. This concrete is nearly dry
and my settling can almost be counted as complete.
Shouldn't be long now before my head lolls back
leaving my mouth wagged open, no longer
able to howl at the moon if someone sets me outside.