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See?

Not a single thing to tell you
that you haven’t heard before.
But I can’t help repeating
a woodpecker’s at the door.

Tapping at the knob.
Why don’t I let it in?
Cuz it might start to bob
A bob bob bobbin in.

I don’t know why I say this
but I saw him in a poem.
But now he’s got a simple twist.
He thinks he wants my home.

Or maybe he sees splendor
contorted in the knob.
A tall and sleek pretender.
A buzzard on the job.

Now he opens his busy beak.
Tries to seize the shinney brass.
But it makes a loud squeak.
He’s thrown on his ass.

He gives the door a nod
or maybe it’s a knock.
Either way’s a façade.
I feel down on his luck.

Or maybe he’s just a thing.
Broken feathers impale his back.
A yoyo on a string
jumping up to attack!

But I’m in the way of the bird.
I lie by his side and explain,
“You shouldn’t be ashamed.
You were never given the word.

Like the printing press or TV
get up and wobble like a man.
You’re the reflection of the can.
Not a nicely unknown me.”

Published in Poetry