(it is a sparrow) sitting
on my back fence, and how
unsurprised I am to find her
there (it is spring), whose
poem would it be?
Yours, reader? Nursing a cup
half full of tea. Sequestered
(on your couch) with your thoughts
and pillows. Drying your thumbs
on a new book of poetry (lamp on
behind you). Skipping poems
with boring titles.
Would it be mine? Part-time poet
mouthing would-be metaphors
at his back door. Certainly,
there is a poem there:
A bird sitting on my fence
in the spring time.
Maybe I don't want this poem.
Perhaps it would be the bird's
(a sparrow),
who just left my fence.
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