On a sandy rock
outside your shoreline window,
a Blue-Footed Booby
mocks your sexual stumbling
as you try to caress
Sandy’s right breast
but she pushes you out of your queen
bed like her bad
college boyfriend before you.
You need to know:
why does her shadow
still sleep in a sophomore dorm
while her body sleeps next to you
on queen comfort?
Driving with the window
squeaked open, you spot
two yellow Bushtits
perched on a stop sign
chirp chirping at you as if they hold
a superiority complex
over your domestic existence.
You should seek one out
as a marriage counselor.
Yet knowing you, you’d snap
a therapeutic neck
during the first session
to ready a relationship-repair dinner
with your only legal love.
Through a trio of green lights,
you’re assaulted by a Hooters
screaming about their waitresses
who carry jugs
of beer and spicy wings.
You must drive back.
Out your window, down on the beach,
the cyclic high tide
washes away
a child’s sandcastle triumph.
In the oak tree that straddles
your property line,
an Acorn Woodpecker pecks away
a hole into a home.
In your bedroom, Sandy scrolls
through college snapshots. In one,
you’re standing in the campus background
among a throb of freshmen. Up front,
her smile commands attention.
You protest: why won’t her mouth
gestate to term that same smile anymore?
You haven’t seen it
since the last Red Moon
dropped a sea of light
onto your anniversary night
three summers ago.
Sandy fires a declarative flight:
for a pet, I want a rooster
to play pecking games
with our baby to-be.
Don’t you know how happy we’ll be?
Plus, a cock will look on
when we make our baby.