Ode To The Red-Winged Blackbird Poem by Jimi Doyle

Ever since I gave up drinking
I give a little money to bums
on the street

who, unlike the Red Winged-Blackbird,
do not sqauwk
a tumbling tune
atop cattails

or flash bold scarlet
and bright sulphur chevrons

all to divert attention from
the wife and kids
softly concealed
at home

along water courses,
marshes, and dry meadows

to bums, like me,
who, unlike the Red-Winged Blackbird,
are lie-downs
stinky sponges
with rotting shoes
and soggy pants

eyes deep, vacant
alone
afraid
needing to be drunk

to bums, like me,
who, unlike the Red-Winged Blackbird,
do not quietly weave
the arrival of Spring

nor do they flash lightning
in the glossy black of their eyes...

No.

Today the big lake is sweetly offering
2 to 4 inch waves
crashing in miniature like the break at Molokai...

bums are alive
birds are alive
I am alive