Details |
Wallace Kaufman Poem
Where this time?
The pair makes several tries--
my hard hat, a can of nails, window ledge
all filled with leaves.
How do they judge
those inferior, this one prime?
It's predetermined,
I don't know how.
So too their songs--
he two-notes or three-notes,
and she chirrrs along.
Same songs, same positions,
morning in and morning out.
I wake to their repetition.
If they watch me, no doubt
they'd see my own routines,
but neither they nor I can find
what isn't wired in my genes.
Why does this human mind
hear Figaro, Figaro, Figaro
in his operatic voice?
Or is it video, video, video?
It's his song, but my choice.
Copyright © Wallace Kaufman | Year Posted 2014
|