Waiting For Breakfast

On the wire across the road against
A gray sky, sneakers hang, and under them a man
Stumbles home from a drunk past
A child walking with her hood up and hand
On her scarfed Grandmother’s arm.
What else is there? whistles
The clarinero—two notes sliding upward over
And over again from its perch
On the roof—what else is there besides
Wheelbarrows in relation to chickens
And a cactus standing stoic in the yard?

Well there’s this:
My twitchy memory of an odd and erotic
Dream, a gnawing unease in my belly, dogs
Barking through the fence about health
Care and immigration reform, and if
I’m not mistaken, details on how to simplify
The tax code. Also
There’s an invisible chill in the breeze
That comes from somewhere I’ve never been
And goes to somewhere I’ve yet to go.

So if you’re asking, strange orange-eyed
Black bird, if these relations, one visible thing
To another, are precious?
They are. But if you’re asking
If they’re all there is, well
I hope not. It’s morning
And a little patch of blue sky grows in the east
And in the west fog pours through the green
Gap like pea soup and of course
I’m imagining things: A bird
That asks the same questions as I do, a warmer
Afternoon, perhaps, and the imminent, I hope
Arrival of breakfast.