Those kids laughing in the park stopped
—is it because of me? Heh.
Survivor; a definition: a kid on a bike
doing the Idaho stop in Ottawa, Canada.
Meerkats turning their heads. Passengers checking.
This sympathetic schlub recording this poem.
Yes and the rich get shells.
I drive through a red with no one ahead of me.
Many bad things are happening.
I cannot find my son’s boots.
It is pouring. I begin sobbing.
My son puts a finger to his lips.
He goes, “Shh, shh, shh,”
like the parents to the baby on the bus.
A day for intercity travel & raptors. Clear.
No rain after records. The weather-
persons warned, “Nothing more
may be absorbed.”
I observe spring evicting burrowers
accounting for the birds-of-prey
wobbling on drafts
Awed, I rubber-neck and
swerve, shout, “BIRD”
and tenderize dessert.
The commenter lols at Bree Olsen,
former actress, pictured crying
can’t get a job—what’d she expect
yeah, some women capital-L Like it, FWIW
—what’s it matter? The patter of hands
beating on a window somewhere.
I suppose all that
will be read: the threads, the history
what I wanted to see
but not what I muttered
walking behind the young woman
in a swimsuit that day.