baby lust

deciduous leaves and an empty
bag of french onion potato chips.
nest-ready,
only that nauseating smell
found on everything processed
and human-related.
who planted these prickly trees?
foster hollys.
if god had made a place that squirrels
would never dare to climb,
would never think of raiding,
this would be it.
isn't it lovely, my fair robin,
with the silky-smooth feathers
and half-inch eyelashes?
she flies away.
tulips unravel their pink-and-yellow
petals in mock sympathy,
glossy blue baby announcements in the
mailbox of a barren woman.
twins again!
wrong, wrong, wrong.
my fair robin, perched so delicately
on the railing, head cocked
to one side. i puff out my chest
and you fly away again.
humans on the porch, giggling
like banshees, systematically
reproducing.
lovingly patting the protruding parasite
in her belly.
shriek at them!
flap your bright blue wings in their
sickeningly saccharine faces!
claw at their eyes!
they with their carbon emissions
and french onion potato chips
so unfortunately cradling what your
itty-bitty bird hormones so crave,
that irreplaceable original which
robin-egg-blue crayons so unfittingly
try to recreate.
disgruntled. flap up into your foster holly
and snap irritably at the big-eyed
babies on the porch.
mother robin in the cherry tree next door
clicks her tongue at you in
disapprobation,
looking for love in all the wrong
places.