stick

stick

Finally in full bloom the live oak

received them all six to come to

squawk and gawp on the lawn

and spread their good news noise

to the whole street.  Oh oak,

oak, to take it like a dog, or

a faithful lady- in- waiting while they

hop from branch to branch, while

I watch them pick a brief bearing

to squat to not to squat to quibble

maybe but to gain the best view

to set off from.  The dead

thing is not far from your trunk:

struck by the tour bus, it’s life fell out

like children who mis-

judge the distance to the next

branch and they slip, foot or fist

and feel themselves listening

from a different part of their body

than they even knew could

listen, the soft possibility between

their legs full of charge, the privacy

they’ve always been warned to

protect, the way crows protect

their ownership of their dead, or not

the same way maybe, but still

with a bit of noise, with some jumping from

bar to bar on the scale, cawing

to the drunk conductor who’s lately

late, ever always late, dropping his baton

in a gutter to watch it stick

to the shitty runoff after the last heavy

rain, to gain some dignity

when, after it’s left alone by him, it’s

picked up by a boy or a girl

on their way out of the rain

and they take it for what it is:

a stick, a simple wooden branch:

oak maybe but how would they know

and would they even care, waving

it around to conjure, to conduct

to orchestrate their flight,

their dark and timid and tumbling

body relenting to the weather

in any kinds of sky