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 little 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
and 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 the span.
You’re the reflection of the can.
Not a nicely unknown. See?