A break from the rain: the neighbors
dragged their push mowers out
in defense of curb appeal
and the high and tight grass cut
so popular in post war diaspora
the retooled farms of yards and slab houses
protected by DTP and the attitude
that defeated the Nazis.
The red cardinal looks fat and unhappy, perched on top of the shepherd’s hook holding an empty bird feeder. We have broken faith, and the birds will remember. The grackles, at least, understand the chaotic nature of the world and have found other places to graze in a most anti-environmental fashion. Farmers don’t like grackles because they eat the corn when it’s green on the stalk and aren’t as sociable as crows to believe in crucified straw men. Farmers don’t like grackles for the same reason some people don’t like cats: grackles and cats act more like we are than we’d like to tell ourselves we are. Thus, like the faithless in any culture, grackles are outlaws, but don’t take it personally, as one day the seed or suet will always be gone. The cardinal took off, but will return. They are birds of blind faith.
Yesterday afternoon’s cold coffee
and what’s left of a head cold
getting back to the grind
of the mind and the fingers
putting words on the page
and telling myself
it will all work out in the end
it will all bleed out in the end
in this one long game of chicken
and the headlights are bearing down
but the thing you never, never do
is look away
