“If wishes were horses, beggars would ride”
–Kurt Vonnegut
There is a bird feeder,
where I’ve still seen no birds,
suctioned to the top
of a tree, towering, contorted
in a reflection so large the feeder
camouflages its own clarity,
leaving just seeds and a swaying
palate of branches to divebomb.
It’s sucked on the slate
cloudy pane of my neighbor’s
closet where I’ve almost seen her
changing like a clear invitation
to the airborne— she darts
as I lean back turning pages,
as I squirm and peck poems,
she flips on the switch
moving from frame to frame:
the windows like televisions
lighting and dimming: a pilot
light barely hinting at control,
the little tower still there
for birds to peak their beaks
in until they can’t bear her
staring back through the glass,
as if she has gone
back on her word.