Labor
Avram Kline
My secret month is visible to birds.
I brandish new plates without
telling my roofer, who knows
the bird tapping my soffits
and the baby bat. I hear plans
to startle me, a young voice
in the leaves, Werner Herzog
issuing a PSA on texting at the
wheel. I’ve texted at the wheel,
grazed a boy darting in cleats
across Route 9. From my porch
I assess the fields, then ask my
roofer if he admires men
who take the time. Stupid
appropriation of a sweet saying,
he says. Labor is for the birds.
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I brandish new plates without
telling my roofer, who knows
the bird tapping my soffits
and the baby bat. I hear plans
to startle me, a young voice
in the leaves, Werner Herzog
issuing a PSA on texting at the
wheel. I’ve texted at the wheel,
grazed a boy darting in cleats
across Route 9. From my porch
I assess the fields, then ask my
roofer if he admires men
who take the time. Stupid
appropriation of a sweet saying,
he says. Labor is for the birds.