oh, chickadee

I Spy a Worm

Then some days I flit
from page to page, just a bit discontent—
envy eats like a worm. And I play "I spy,"
spot: your feathered breast like a shrunken scarf 'round your neck,
black and matching cap,
oh chickadee. But
we both know what little world's in Boston—
just what crumb of world we've glimpsed—here's

to the same: of Berlin’s wire, Bordeaux’s vines, all sticks
and weaves, we'd collect then leave—
oh, baby, envy
waits with broken wings for mending,
on, its never sturdy—baby birdy.
Pie on the windowsill,
we won't stop—never
with just one slice, still eating
envy like a worm.

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But you really should know: Chickadees don't get to see Europe and they eat mostly insects.