TALKING WITH SPARROWS


The lost sparrow poems
remain

lost

left on an Irish bus
going God knows where.

Sparrow too
lost to us.

Can't remember when
I last saw one.

This little being
so beloved

for just being
itself.

But here in Rome
twenty sparrows to a table

picking over the remains
from touristy meals.

A glorious glut
of sparrows.

"Hey passero!" I grin
as one perches on my camera.

But just then the waiter
claps his hands and shouts.

"Vattene...passeri... spostarlo!"

They fly away to the statues
who greet them with open arms.

But when the waiter turns his back
they're back.

They the reason we are here.
The food neither here nor there.

"Vieni qui passeri ... Ciao!"