I couldn't help but smile
when a bird outside our kitchen
trilled, "Whew, whew, whew!"
Then it switched to "Wee-oop,
wee-oop, wee-oop!"

"Listen to that!" I cried aloud,
as Kim kept chopping her kale.
I went to the screen for a ****
while the bird continued.

The singing abruptly stopped,
and so did I.
I put away my pipe
and started a gluten-free diet.
I cancelled our subscription
to the New York Times,
and filed for divorce.

This was no surprise to Kim.
"You were always an *******,"
she said. "Same as that
******* bird."

Only the breeze disturbs my day.
It strokes my cheek,
and whisks through the leaves
like a handheld brush.

Everything else is mechanical.
Bubbles for the jacuzzi
arrive by pump. Whines of planes
and growls of trucks
corrupt the eloquent breeze.

Look...a hawk!

Wide feathered wings full-out,
body mottled,
it dips above the yard next door,
then glides behind a roof.

When I think of you,
I think of your ******.
I feel it from within
when it's swollen
like a balloon.
I feel its ******
like a bone volcano.
Where did it go?
Where did it go.

My heart starts beating
when I think of your name.
It beats even faster when I
think of your husband.