The British call seagulls the “thugs” of the bird world. They “detest” the birds for snatching food from picnic tables and depositing splotches on cars. Pigeons and magpies come next on the list of most loathed, followed a few slots down by the unlikely sparrow who is simply “dull looking,” a criticism that seems dubious coming from a populace of oxfords, woolens, and tweeds.
Singing when you’re not supposed to is only brave
into a rifle. Not in a hippie basement with a red toggle
Driving Past Our Marriage House
I’m glad you can’t see how close the wisteria
is creeping under the sill of our old second story
bedroom window—you’d been so vigilant
I saw The Philadelphia Story for the first time on a Saturday in midsummer. A friend had recommended it to me, had described his favorite scene from the film in terms I may have misinterpreted.
As the punctuated surface reflects the world she breathes,
her glance flitting from stippled lake to scribbled page,
all day the writer inside writes to the same hypnotic air—
appeared from nowhere beside the others,
wrought iron, thick as a quarter.
Seven numbers engraved on its head, some inscrutable.
In the eighties I failed to learn fractions. I was frequently lonely. I stood in right field and wore a baseball glove on my head.
Frank found Mason striding back and forth across the sidewalk, likely to keep warm.
In the woods behind the house
I built a tiny city from sticks
and rolled matchbox cars down
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