Avian Neurosis

Two house sparrows
on a third floor window ledge

look in at me, then
look at one another,

then back at me.
I become self conscious,

certain there was something
in that glance, some

knowing judgement
before they leapt to flight

into unbelievable blue
above the south side.



The Washington Building, where birds pass judgement.

The Odd Way of Memory.

I often cannot remember

what I was going to say,

like it's gotten away.

I find myself

lost in conversation,

temporarily

in daydream,

thinking perhaps

about the space

on our crooked front walk

where weed breaks concrete

with unmistakable beauty,

then the neighbor's wood gate 

squeaks before it slams

and I remember...

this morning as you slept,

you exhaled loudly.  I thought

it was a message.

Having driven an hour up the road, arriving at the conclusion that you and I aren't nearly as different as we think.

Their tulips bloom in flower beds
just like ours do, and spring
rain stands in oily pools
where cars once were.

In quiet neighborhoods,
much like ours, with fresh
cut lawns, men walk dogs
in early morning half-light
past the occasional home
with boarded-up windows.

Their children count the days
until summer, adults 'til the weekend
while the elderly count days
between visitors, and sometimes
one of them is lost too soon.

All of us suffering in small ways
under the excruciating beauty
of small towns in springtime.