My whole life ruined by trying to be good
Even when I was bad, I tried to tell her
Out on the plaza where she had gone
To cop a smoke, but she waved
My words away, and so I regrouped
And asked if she knew
What kind of tree that was,
Pointing to the honey locust with its leaves
Less fragile than they appear,
Causing her to do some pointing of her own,
Directing my gaze skyward with her index finger
To the bird in spiral freefall toward the earth.June 2002