There’s a decomposing sparrow
on the hutch above
the journalism building entrance.
It’s been there for two months.
It remained through the hurricane winds and rain.
No one’s cleaned it,
no one’s seemed to notice
the small body
pressed against the glass.
I don’t want anyone to move the sparrow.
Tuesdays and Thursdays I look up
and check if it’s there,
its feathers wet and brittle,
soon its bones will poke through.