she started to
call me
a cuckoo clock
because
in our few
daily interactions
it became
a series
of repetitive talks
as she pulled
father back
i had
only so many chances
to speak

but it dawned
on me
that i was never
a painted bird
in a wooden box

i have this
great need
to share
the love
that boils
within my
metallic frame
a tea kettle
set upon the fire
of your
perfection
unable to do
anything
but shout
adoration