We are brick-bracketed and broken here in our no-end street.
The park, with a lonely flowering cherry, is police rough walled away.
From the second floor window there are seven trees,
cut off eact at angles, by inconsiderate roofs.
They remain rootless, seven coro-crown in a covid state.
There is an ivy, climbing urgently, up and along a house back-side.
Desperate for the light of things.
Aren’t we all.
We are bird-bracketed with the blackbirds’ song, in our open sky road
The other birds stay well away. Just starling, collared dove.
From the kitchen there’s a magpie pair, angry and unloved,
blamed for the pestilence, a plague with them, a plague.
And empty nests. And empty feeders. Watch closed cameras for a bird life need.
There’s nothing in the rafters, no easy grift of pigeons homed.
No swallow heralds summer now.
No shakespeared cuckoo call.
We are broke-bracketed and empty pursed in our tentative not street
The envelopes are white not brown, in subtle shift disguised
We count out everything, the cost, the cash, the lost experience, the empty
shelves, the broken lists
We wait for push and sharp and scienced gains
And monies from somewhere or not.
No easy virtued income found
When will there be hope?
by Electra Rhodes