“
Bowerbird"
Recently I rescued a supermarket
bag from the crotch of a tree,
found fewer shields than souvenirs,
figured out how to game the pain scale
and opted not to. Water the color
of watery tea comes through
the light fixture on a holiday
when nobody will come plug it up
and make us regret complaining.
Nothing like a movie to remind you
that you never travel and a lot
of almost fornicating happens
a mere floor or two above the one
you’re on. Shoulder, TV flicker, flash
of back. I’ll make up a name and try
to affix it to whoever left
these four white doors on the sidewalk,
which I dragged home two and one
at a time. In daylight they reveal
smudges left after tenants groped one
spot, then the next—hallway, stairwell,
street, the mess just beyond, forest
on the dented side of a globe.
There’s always the absurd
woven into every nest I build and hop
around, waiting for the right one
to wander in. The right one
is the one who wanders in.
”
”