Rustled from sleep
by the bird’s whistling;
slow and quick, sharp songs
two of them framed
through a trapezoid
of morning sunlight
in the sugar maple
outside my window

                so I went back to sleep.

Moved from gray
artifice of work
and workplace concerns,
given dignity
to my passions
before I turned
as gray as the job
is blue as the rest of them

                and on Tuesday I said
       I’d cover your shift.

Called to love,
like a diplomat—
from my country
of isolation;
given the royal
runaround, and sent
back with eternal kisses
on my neck

                and that is
        about the time
when I stopped receiving calls.