After Brendan Constantine
From an antique rug beater to a flamingo
We have never met, but I want you to know how much
I envy your feathers, pink as a cloud at sunrise, nearly
weightless, with their hollow shafts, capable of carrying
you great distances. For myself, I go nowhere except
out into the dusty yard, where the maid channels
her resentment by smacking the master’s Persian
carpet till it yields years of ground in sand, blown in
from the beach. I am all knots, woven of bamboo,
while you arc in one tapered sweep, your neck
and wings, your beak, curved as a church key,
streamlined and graceful. I stay at home alone
and dream, while you travel yearly with extended
family, noisy but amiable, through skies of seamless
blue, landscapes of cloud, knowing beyond question
the exact location of the beach in Tunisia where you
were hatched. I would love to ride on your back,
tucked between your wings, though I am afraid
to lose my job, beating the world clean, a task
we have great need of these days, but if you ever
wish to come out of the cold and damp, to dry
between your toes, I invite you to stand with me
by the fire, each of us balancing on one long leg.
