Foraging for breakfast shamed you
When you looked up from your simple poem
On Labor Day, quoting, No layoff
From this / condensery. Small bird,
You said to yourself, being
The only one of the two of you
Who knew what it means to be
A bird and be small—meaning not
Being the forte of flycatchers
For all their complex intensity—
It’s ok to be simple someplace,
It’s ok to try to make words mean.
They’ll go back to merely being
Things for other complicated thinking
To consider or quickly reject,
Once you and this diligent flycatcher
Have finished with your laboring.
Finches erupted in the trees,
Like applause made by singing
In your simplistic fantasy,
Like praise for your simplicity.
May the flycatcher have found
Some rest in satiety.
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