By: William C. Blome

You show me someone who’s familiar with hawks
That swoop only for barbells,
And I’ll show you a goofy lummox

Who’s undoubtedly rarer than the birdies
In question. And, okay, it’s your refuse-heap love
For me that goads you to quip, “Why,

That sounds like my husband, sweetie,
The jackass of pinstripes, the yokel
Of Wheat Chex, and one close, close look-alike

To the feathered divers in question.”
Now me, I think those man-made waterfalls
Tumbling against the nape of your neck

From two-thirty on of the day in question
(While out of the side of my eye I saw no hawks,
No vireos, no jays (though I did spot a circus

Strongman jettisoning his barbells before
Jumping into a community pool well ahead
Of closing time on the weekday in question))

Tricked your ass into being pre-positioned
For evening, and thus tragically unavailable
To yank kids in trouble out of afternoon water.