From the flight height of an overpassing bird,
it must look pitiful, me: mostly doggo by day
except for fitful bursts from the house to drag
garbage to the bins, sort plastic from the tins,
or on the occasion I’ve hauled myself awake
(possible only after a good night’s sleep) and
from the dowie dregs of my ordinary agonies,
allowed myself to linger outside with the birds
and endure November’s lacing storm or sunlight
slip through a thin, bleached row of birch trees,
but to so rarely have the chutzpah, the moxie
to go all night, to yaw that way and mean it.
You should know, I say, a man I love is dying.
I know, I heard you, I can hear you, they say.