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.”