It's like this, Anna:

shell banged bare
with a bat, Anna

vat of gun powder 
shed, Anna

famished bird
fed off scraps, Anna

gut-itch flown
south for life, Anna

dropper's stool self-pecked
slow, Anna

wince or stool
dropped again, Anna

bird sifting
through his shit, Anna

slug built by a bird's
beak, Anna

small handgun.
It's like this, Anna.

Like the gun
the bird doesn't own.

It's like this, Anna.
It's like that.

It's like that
and like this.

__

Up early one morning staring at my computer screen, waiting for a long narrative to arrive, I gave up and opted for music. J-Live's "It's Like This Anna" was the first song that cued up on my internet radio. This poem dropped in.