Worry
Greedy for feasting, tiny claws strain
for sunflower seeds meant for feathered
friends—not pesky, tall-tailed thieves.
Through the bedroom window,
I watch him struggle with the grids—
like a prisoner desperate to escape
his cell—only this felon wants in. Taking
pity, I toss out a corn cob and, later,
during the southern night’s drawl,
hear him scuttle inside the wall—
disrupting the cat’s sleep and mine. I think
about the house wires and what will happen
if he finds a live one. I wonder if he can
access the attic and gnaw on my seasonal
door wreaths. What if his mate has followed
him here? I entertain the thought of babies,
and if they will suffocate (or will I?) as I burrow
deeper into my pillow of helplessness. He scuttles
from one end of the house to the other,
reminding me of my scramble through the endless
tunnel of each day’s toils. Maybe he’s on a lark—
enjoying a boyish adventure while his mate
waits patiently for him to return to the nest that
they made together and explain himself to her.
She’s probably nestled high in a pine tree next
to the house, bracing against the wind as it whines
through the crevices of her crumpling heart.
How long will she wait and what will she do
if he doesn’t come back? Will she define a new
destiny for herself? Will she look for another,
learn to live alone, or, like Dido, self-destruct?
Will she ever stop listening . . . watching . . . waiting?
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