Outside my
window
in the February
dawning
of more death
and leaf meal,
the lone bird on
the branch
that is more ice
than wood
sings as if the
world is not locked
in its struggle
with mortality
and coffins and
nor’easters.
A sparrow, I
think,
and what a lucky
fellow
who can compose
concertos
so far away from
his usual venue,
a concert hall
now invisible
and maybe, we
all think,
gone for good.
What secret does
he hold?
I’m shaving with
lukewarm water
at a porcelain
sink installed
in the
Depression,
and I don’t
share his optimism.
But there’s no
one else around.
Does he woo only
me?
Folly indeed.
And yet maybe he
is aware
of events that I
and my stubble
of chin and
earth are unaware of.
He sings as if
he were fresh from the womb,
as if he knew of
young love and kisses
and picnics with
wine and cheese,
as if he’s been
told
by a source
unknown to me and my kind
of a three day
wait
and an empty
tomb.
~William Hammett
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