Bowerbird

Bowerbird
by Mark Bibbins

I recently rescued a supermarket
bag from the crotch of a tree,

found fewer shields than souvenirs,
figured out how to game the pain scale

and opted not to. Water the color
of watery tea comes through

the light figure on a holiday
when nobody can come plug it up

and make us regret complaining.
Nothing like a movie to remind you

that you never travel and a lot
of almost fornicating happens

a mere floor or two above the one
you’re on. Shoulder, TV flicker, flash

of back. I’ll make up a name and try
to affix it to whoever left these four

white doors on the sidewalk, which
I dragged home two and one

at a time. In daylight they reveal
the smudges left as tenants groped

one spot, then the next–hall, stairwell,
street, the mess just beyond, forest

on the opposite side of the globe.
There’s always the absurd

woven into each nest I build and hop
around, waiting for the right one

to wander in. The right one
is the one who wanders in.

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