The dove in the hat

I’m sure I’m supposed to say

something to the slobbery spit

in front of me

but I can’t remember

the words

even though they clap

and holler

and watch a smile crawl

as the baby drools my name,

or whatever it’s been digested down to

like a magician’s trying to remember

their first trick with worn, useless cards:

tada

*

The bird’s on the ground

and I say

don’t you know you’re

not supposed to

walk around when

you got wings

and the bird looks

at me

clumped in my chair

loose with a cigarette

for a worm

and fried hair for more

and probably wishes

it could say the same

*

Two racoons are caught

in the net of my gazebo

after being the kings of garbage

and I just listen

as they scratch

and moan

and rot inside

till they are free

from the responsibility of royalty

and I can add them to

another king’s pile