Birds, I Tell Her

Write about me,

my wife says

as we sit out back.

I’m writing about

birds, I tell her.

She smiles and becomes

a cardinal, flies

into the maple,

chirping. I reach

for my notebook

but notice red

fledging my arms —

hop toward the tree

and cock my head,

waiting.

Small Joys

Around dusk, I notice

children’s excitement

aimed at the sky,

at something I’ve seen

several times during the stretch

of my own lengthening shadow.

I return to my ballgame, but

the thought of missing out

pulls at me

as the moon the ocean

and eclipses my interest in the score.

How many do I have left?

I step into crisp air

as the kids clap and cheer

the return of the full moon,

a giant pearl.

Later that evening,

I find my wife

taking a bath and ask

if she’s going to shave her legs.

She smiles, surfaces a shin and nods.

I sit on the edge of the tub and wait.

“Birds, I Tell Her” previously published by The Old Red Kimono, Spring 1992.