Good Life


They chip and flutter,

squeak and squeal

tunes in tatters,

imp sounds of anything

(feathers of smoke and smudge),

love crevices and crannies

of our own dilapidation,

nest with our discards:

paper, cellophane, string, and hair.

The young one over there—

broken-out with yellow specks—

perches on a cracked cornice

of a crumbling old mansion

alive with nooks and niches

(owners flown):

from its small sharp beak,

shreds of song.