little noise in my sisters trailer

I shushed my sister
With my finger
Tuned into the mew
She said it was the kettle cooling
But she was wrong

I knew
it was
The whirling toothpick
In an erstwhile skull
I once recognized

might have been
The creaky cage
At the center
What it holds
I’m not so certain

Or

It could have been
Existential Sparrow sneering
At me and my
Transcendental whimsy
How I desire
To create the sublime
But produce the picturesque
Or how I long to fall in Love
but wind up fucking slobs