I can’t hear the trees
for the birds. Two of them
trapped in our garage,
a flutter of wings, a wild
cooing among the bicycle dust
and giant trash bins.
Near my idling: forsythia blooms.
Listen: I’m afraid of my husband
taking me by the shoulders
and telling me I disappoint him.
Still, I wait. Of course a broom
would be quicker. Even I know that.