Bird Feeder

If they thought I was funny,
why did they have to say
I was funny? Laughing, clapping
rubbing: crickets outside my window,
under the living room couch, in Tulsa,
I was nine. One standing almost
triumphantly triumphant hands on
his hips giving specific affirmation
as if I had come to be right there
in front of everyone openly, freely
in response to some grotesque incantation
invitation. In midsentence, he paused,
magician-like, pulled himself together or
like German philosophers following
Goethe reflect, collected himself,
through my joke, me bird flapping
into the room from out the inside pocket
of his pressed jacket. The one deep down
inside grows a memory hole stealing all my good
jokes as smug explanations we all got
together.

This morning a dove ate from our feeder
next to a squirrel. We thought it was a
clean pigeon. We called him Charlie.
He will whisper shit dreams in my ear
leaving no doubt as to the truth and
ultimate whereabouts of my uniquely
mine punchline.

Like:
"My scalp peels..."
"That haircut..."
"Lynched Child..."
All a birdfeeder and empty seed shells,
possibly a lingering recollection of
some event I am trying awfully hard
to forget that I may not even have right.