Dead Things, a poem

Today I saw a dead bird on the shore
Puffy, caked with sand, No longer soaring
Fate has cut its strings
A rehearsal for the last act of everything.
I take it home and pluck its feathers,
Look at the gray in its plumage, measuring
The color against my Salt and pepper hair,
As I wonder if it likes it there
Where?
Captivated by this thought I sequester
Myself in my room, my wife says a smell is festering
A dankness in the house. When my birdie sings,
I tell her, I'll allow it to take wing
I stroke its rotting skin and beak
And keep asking it to speak
I stare into its remaining eye, seeking
Answers.
When I listen hard I think I hear it shrieking
I chop it up and put it in a soup, even though it's rotting
Watching this dead thing boil I pat my own back for spotting
A loophole, for by eating what Death has touched I'll be forever out of its reach
I'm feeling unwell and need some air, and so shall take a walk on the beach