Phone Line Crows
I spent the break
in the day
trying to gain the trust of the birds.
They chattered in disdain
when I spread crumbs out on the sill
pecked the bread to dust
when I had my back turned.
Saxophone music drifts
through the market.
There is a faint electric buzzing
in my head in the form of neurons
& their repeated failures.
Oh, to connect the music with a mouthpiece,
with a history and a set of lungs
and the ghostly, crowded brass
no one else can notice.