When that oriole whistled from the orchard
it seemed frankly to be asking, You got
a problem with that? Its orange and black
was brash as a high-school letter sweater.
No problem, no problem, except I saw
Saturday night under the old Rialto’s
marquee again . . . at least until a ruby-throat
running a quality-control check
on a trumpet vine drew nearer and I thought,
This is what I ’d like next time around:
to be one of the air’s accomplices,
too quick for boredom and
acrobatic in love.