POEMS
FAR FROM THE FIELD
GOODYEAR
28
The potted tree, thirsting. A bird of prey, wide as a falling man, crying, smacks the second-story glass and drops its caught mouse, then lies back on the balcony, the top half of a body in bed, staring in disbelief. On the other side of the window, you are on the telephone shouting at a man, but call exuberantly, Whoa! The bird, now on a branch, returns to his circling friend and the mouse is left on the balcony, dead, but seemingly wondering how. What we wonder is whose blood is that on the glass, and whose job is that mouse.