Robert S. Pesich
A Window in the City
I was in the back, in the bathroom, reading the Times on the toilet, a small article under a yellow night-light because the switch was blown: "old woman finds infant in dumpster, revives him with songs." It was then that I could hear someone knocking on the neglected window in the corner, above my face. A small bird, dark as my eyes returning to her chicks. The nest wedged against the hinge keeping the window open with its woven mouth of mud, grass, and tangled cassette tape holding my voice, a few words, a brief song, made useful. Tiny ligature of a greater voice that brings me to the window. Black back-alley, bricks, dumpster and sour diesel. The birds resting in my breath while outside, someone shatters a glass or a mirror under a brief snow of blossoms floating down from somewhere.
Want to read more? Choose More Poetry