Catbird Seat
A good view. The traffic and wind careen.
The highway overpass vibrates. Suicide starts
to sing, a wind-dervish rattling thin mantis limbs.
On the branches of peripheral nerves, small birds
stretch plasma necks, warble high
in the catbird seat of her soul.
She thought about her soul. Only one invisible
globule of it ever active, the rest tranquilized,
a pool fed by absent-minded angels.
All this ugliness, the streams of cacophony,
the vaporous scar tissue of petroleum and rubber,
floats up as vivid bombinate blooms.
She breathes it all in, watching from a crows-nest
that sways leagues above her head.
She has dealt herself a spaced-out view, here
up in the air, her toes curling into concrete,
she sits back in the best chair of her vertigo,
and yells to all the passing, trafficking,
crud-burning speeders below –
“You’re all way too slow, for a catbird thought,
too lowdown for any wind-scattered moment.
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