Thursday, September 28, 2017

ODE, SORT OF

Whenever there are places
to be, when there's traffic,
when the car

needs gas—
I hope
you still notice,

safely ensconced
deep in the strip
of decorative boxwood

which flanks greasy street curb—
the assertive old
starling,

with a distantly recognizable
version of
the milky way galaxy

swirling
across her iridescent,
midnight back—who keeps

assuredly cheeping;
not like
she's trying to

remind you
of anything—like she's
trying to get you to remember

something
sweetly indistinct
about your own future—lyrics

to a tune
that you haven't started
humming yet.

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