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.
