Nest

Waking up is always disappointing,
your people still dead, Ukraine still invaded,
assholes apparently still mandatory.
Addled by histamines, I fixate on a fuchsia
cheek smudge. Outside, some wet cement, a daffodil.
In Topanga, the sun honeys the hills.
Hangover, why can’t you play the flute
instead of these constant bongoes,
or hangover Marcel Marceau style,
only the silent semblance of pain.
Hunched over a sidewalk splatter,
a long list of fuck ups runs through my head.
I put my boy in my pocket and walk through the day.
Birds sing songs.
I write poems the way a bird builds a nest.
Building things out of things
intended for other uses.
Some guy with his right arm gone.
Nice to have an extra set of ears.
Somehow I’ve got Destin beach sand in a Mike & Ike can.
Yellow stripes are the only thing
keeping us from hurtling
into each other. We should be fine,
as long as we keep believing in the power of paint.
A horse, napping like a champ. That’s another story.
Everything seems to have happened.

First published in Tipton Poetry Journal, Spring 2024