I’ve grown accustomed to this weathered town,
this sea-bent border of a city;
the withered house, despite its ho-hum dregs of monotony
provide a sanctuary for sizable whims and seizable fantasies.

The autumn storm mangled the oaks, dismantled the roof
and left the landscape flat and dull;
the gusts drove the birds to disarray.

A bevy of locals gather
with a village of grackles to loiter and loll
and to speak incessantly about crows and owls;
to gossip like a wire of magpies. It’s a court in session
with jury on the fence in a squabble over a Southern destination.

I wonder too about Tahiti
and if the one my poor heart loves has found himself or patched
his broken melodies. Sometimes I don’t think of him at all
and preside as judge over a rail of birds.

All in favor of Bora Bora say “Cay”, all opposed say “Caw.”