I should start by saying
I hope it's not clinical insanity
or cabin fever or stir fry or
whatever other nuttiness is emerging
in these cooped up days,
as I'd been hearing Ollie or Olivia
a month or two before quarantines and
masks and six-foot considerations
were all the rage.
(I'm gonna call her/him it, so's to
dispense with potential
him/her tedium—and I WILL NOT
surrender to third-person fashion
also all the rage
these days.)
In the spirit of strict adherence
to factuality, I hereby disclose
only that to which I can objectively attest
is voice.
Whooo...whoo...cooo coo--
yes, might it well be the voice
of a mourning dove? Yet,
as you know, I prefer
owl—in fact
baby owl.
Only when I'm on the can
so to speak
does it call
to me, who else?
Workmen were in the attic
back then, sawing, banging,
and the like—dunno why,
I only rent, share building with
beauty shoppe (are the extra "p" and the "e"
passé or
de rigueur?
Whooo/cooo cares?
Unless it’s it, trapped
like Fortunato, sans revenge motive—
oh lort,
I walked ‘round the one-story
building this morning
saw no opening near the roof
for anything larger than a CV-19
microbe
to wriggle in or out of.
I’d love to believe some brushy,
leafy nest
in the neighboring pecan tree
houses my whooo-er or
cooo-er,
meanwhile I wrestle
with plausibility
the weakening
of the whooos or cooos
is trapped
in my
stir-crazed
imagination.
m.d. paust
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