Two originals from maybe 2016 or 2017.
Ode to the Front Porch Birds
1
This poem is an apology because
this poem is about me, sorry
small bird with your ruffled
plumage, your first flight.
That’s real impressive. Eat
worms, chew straw, suck teeth
you little beaked b***h. It is
five AM. I am thinking about
Death. Go back to sleep,
Mother bird will be home soon.
2
To my credit, your front door is
above my front door, so don’t get
so huffy when I startle you. We almost
cross the same plain –– good
morning dewy mid-spring mid -
West frost. Good morning cup
of portable coffee; straw falls
on my welcome mat, OK, you
redecorated. You see the world
from a weird view. What do
we look like down here? Does
it scare the s**t out of you?
When the door slams shut.
3
It was sad the whole day
when you took off. We saw
you lift up, one of you
(a bird brother, feather fraternity)
got stuck in the chain links of the
fence. So much for freedom.
You, flower tree. Watching us
watch you right back, our strange
land bound bodies weathered to
Earth in terror. Your third,
the youngest (I’m projecting) with
the wild hair flies a bit. Lands
and hops. Doesn’t walking suck?
Compared to flying everything must
suck. Hops into the street. That
night, no suitable metaphor for
the not-song Mother bird sang.
The next morning, a thrashed and
vacant nest. The dew. The air.
Carries us away.
Ode to Other People
If this poem gets published today,
my author’s biography will tell you
I am a full time poet
and a part-time barista.
Latté-to-go Wisoncisn
sits on the porch, cools
in his cup, all stoically frothed
waiting for a sunset to dazzle
the pants off of a pink
envelope of artificial sugar.
Cool, the sweet intentions
of granulated love-letters.
I’d rather, at date of publication
today, or any day my
biography read that I was
a land-worker, pink upper arm
and dad-jeans farmer’s tan
farmer. You see, the thing about
the agriculture of our bodies
is that something would grow out of us.
Something like love
some harvest of knots
and stomachache kisses
on the sandy foreheads
of our freckled childhood
crushes. Oh, paper mâché sail
barge of tip-less receipts,
carry me to where the soil is
ready to reap.
I want to feel the stalks
of seeds of every person
I ever met on a bus
I want to unroll my sleeves
and watch their pollen
spill onto the floor.
I want to lift the brim
of my Detroit Tigers’ hat
and watch you walk
back into my bedroom.
