I don’t know how I know
the blackbird on the front lawn
is thinking, I’ll take on the world with no
padding in my gloves, but I do, and know
I couldn’t do that. To bare-knuckle life
is a death sentence. The blackbird isn’t
thinking straight, says a grey-bearded man
standing in his corner, but I won’t listen
because he’s trying to make my yard
into something it is not. This is not a damn
boxing ring, I yell. I don’t believe in
fighting! But a blackbird is no raven
and on the tip of each wing
he wears boxing gloves, and it’s obvious
to all in attendance that the gloves
have no padding. Hey blackbird,
where’s the feathers to soften to blow?
asks the referee. The blackbird
points his beak to the feathers
on his wings, on his chest, on his tail.
Hollow bones! yells another old man
standing behind the ropes with a towel
draped over his shoulder. If the world
hits my bird, he’s a goner for sure.
And here I am in my own front yard,
watching a blackbird take on the world
unfairly. I want nothing of this fight.
I just mowed the lawn today.
I’ve got my own battles.
This yard is not for boxing.
And I could use
some feathers of my own!