Dead Bird on the Porch

Too lost in song or the joy of his wings, 
perhaps he did not see the glass door. 
Or perhaps he did, and seeing his reflection, 
was unhappy with what he saw; not the hawk 
or condor he imagined, his small life more 
than he could bear. The world weighs heavy  
on those with open eyes, who travel far, 
see so much, then look inside.  

I gathered him up in the morning news 
like a stillborn infant placed at my door, 
careful not to disturb what had already 
been wrecked. Laying him gently in a hole 
of dirt and twigs, wrapped in headlines of  
politics and wars, one could only guess what  
might wait ahead for our own quick wings;  
a path above trees or our own glass door.

Her Wicked Curveball

Some said it was the break, impossible to read, 
as if a sudden breeze grabbed it by the neck, 
spinning it east or west before shoving it 
south into gravity’s mouth. Impossible to read,  
they said. More than impossible to hit.  

Still, I dug myself in, armed with years of 
practice swings and enough broken bats 
to make me wise about such things. I locked  
my eyes on hers searching for a clue, ready for  
that pitch others had swung through.  

Ah, but love is not a game, not for those 
who lose. The heart in heat always flies to  
the farthest fence. Never mind the sun  
in your eyes, the thinning crowd, afternoon 
shadows creeping across the mound.  

She took her signs from one I could not see, 
one who knew the score still oblivious to me. 
Then kicked her leg and cocked her arm  
all with a carefree sigh. Then disappeared without  
a trace as I watched her final pitch sail by.

PETER SERCHUK

Peter Serchuk’s poems have appeared in numerous journals. His published collections are: Waiting for Poppa at the Smithtown Diner (University of Illinois Press), All That Remains (WordTech Editions), and most recently, The Purpose of Things (Regal House), a collaboration with photographer Pieter de Koninck. More at peterserchuk.com.