You see I'm telling him,
the birds don't come anymore
now that you've changed feeders.
But he insists they'll figure it
all out, as if there is a smell
to the seeds laying flat in kitchen foil.
It's been a week now,
only a few sparrows who've
already made their home stop by.
But they're not as bright as the
cardinals dancing, not as charming
as the turtle doves, or not as black
As the starlings or occasional crow.
No they don't seem to know. The
old clear funnel gave their eyes a
Feast. At these heights they need
to see. I want to sit on this deck he
says where I'm not near shit and seeds
And more shit so he isn't, but I am.
I'm near shit and sour seeds. All
I know is I need to yank the chain,
Pull it down, but I don't, not yet but
the shit is beginning to stink enough
and I'm thinking about flushing it