The weather won’t hold—a sigh of capitalism in the clouds
and everybody is making out on Clark St, which is to say
we funnel our reaching through mouths. At work
on the eighth floor someone films a drama on
corporate fraud and all is vertigo from here. There is
a shortage of bathrooms with a river view, green
in my daughter’s drawing. I am magenta. Last night she
pressed her ear to my belly asked if her brother could be
a parrot, a word she’s learned to mean mistake. I bought
my daughter at an ice rink. It was cute. I paid a lot of money
and a new coat. Sometimes I just want a little mercy,
for the train to open its doors, for the turnstile not to be jammed.
Going home I share a cab with a stranger and god I wish
he had panache but he talks of avian flu and—when the driver slams
for a pigeon—screams to hell with Ukraine! My tax form defines
home as a fixed place where you intend to return.
I want to say I did not fuck the birdman or afterwards
let him flick the flab around my chins and thighs but instead
walked the rest of the way, the wind searing me a name,
the night just light enough to storm by.