Robin Song

We’ll get it

right eventually.

You sing

homeless and

destitute, bereft

of any pillow

for your head,

throat open to

the sky and

no assurance of

a mate, but

you sing and

so do I.

You go to

no war, affiliate

no politics,

have nothing

against sparrows

or starlings

though they fly

in the same

sky and you

sing, sing, sing

the jazz of life

and my fine

feathered friend,

so do I.