This morning, all morning,
I sat in a chair by a window
and stared at a bird on a brick.
One brick, blood-red, set firm in the dirt,
far from the manicured swerve
of a sunpolished courtyard. No surname
etched; a corner, gravely chipped. And there,
on two miniature stilts, a bird stood (I decided) stout,
silent-movied in the shade of a grey-green
air conditioning unit. Now and then, a swift bob
left. Then right,
then left. . . still. . . head tilt
eyes wide that bird stood on that brick
for so long. . . who are you greyblue, and why you, there,
and me, here, Popular Science and puke-green
chairs why-and-when-and-whatif and then, that bird
took a shit,
quick, and flew away,
and then,
               right then,
the doctor came out,
and as it turns out,
you are okay, and now . . . pistachios,
whippedcreamandcrumbs, everywhere, because yeah,
who does fucking care and all I can think as you tarnish the air,
there, where you're settled, on speckled-red vinyl, 
is how certain I was
that you were that bird on that brick,
and that life was that shade on that bird,
and that maybe, you might die soon,
but now . . . pistachios,
and I guess that it's just how it goes, I suppose that today's
just today, and all any bipedaling hominid can say, is,
today has me landing off exit twenty-two,
with creamygreen gratitude,
and you,
sound in a diner window,
smiling, and open
all night.