On the sidewalk, while the
coffee kicks in, I'm watching
this sticky-headed robin as he
plucks up and gulps
an whole translucent earthworm
from that post-rain muck
of mulch at the curbside—
and all I itch to do in that moment
is pull out a smartphone
and videotape the situation. I guess
to some juvenile part of me, this act
seems worth preserving;
maybe it makes the little kid inside
me think of dinosaurs, and he's
thrilled and afraid
of his own extinction,
of the roller-coaster thrust
of evolution,
of the drive to achieve
this same kinds of radical
and disgusting satisfaction—
after all, here I am, out here
sketching poems for breakfast;
I have work to do later,
issues to discuss, perimeters
to consider. To him, none of those
matter. He owns
his nakedness and is proud
to wear his predatory hunger.
Or maybe it's because, unlike me, he
was born from an egg
that this marauder doesn't even care
what his own mother might say.
