|
A Year Ago, Today
A year ago today, the last bird died.
Opinions are divided on whether it was a swallow or a crow
or a mistake. But the body is interred in some small place
touched by a mottled peace. //
A bright-faced boy left spiders
and millet at the foot of the stone.
The sun set, and come sit down already,
wash those hands, the food is getting cold. //
Time wore on. //
It first struck the nine-to-fivers
whose vision never saw rest.
They stood on the verandas and stilled their eyes,
two orbs transfixed in space. //
Something about the sky
was dreamy to the toddlers in the sandbox, and it made them
stately judges.
Their fingers slipped, and there were gavels in the sand. //
Six months ago I walked through my sister’s aviary
and held her hand. I told her that it was a fine place
for storing shirts, or maybe grandma’s books.
She laughed and said yes, you’re probably right. //
Three months ago I saw an old man throwing bread crumbs
into a Manhattan pond.
I asked him what purpose did it serve, and he grinned
broadly, because something’s been eating them when he isn’t looking. //
Last month I stayed home. //
Today I went to the wedding of a friend,
the kind of never-parting you see in story books.
Eager lips touched, dewed with shyness
and the audience was applause and fine tidings //
for the happy couple.
Somewhere in the back, I heard someone’s mind catch
on an old thought.
Somewhere in the middle, a little girl broke rank to swat a fly. // |
