Through my living room window, I spot
a peacock resident
prowling Occidental and 61st Street
yet they don’t pay a mortgage
or buy a $7 mocha latte.
I must say — their sapphire blue body
and long verdant tail
rejuvenate
Occidental Street
with a douse of untamed colors.
No one can land on a name.
Paul and I toss between
Paco or Peter or Pierre.
Kind reader, can you pluck
one name
from this P-anointed klatch?
I bet Paul is punching
his keyboard now
to post an ALL CAPS tirade online
how his eyelids get pinned open
and he can’t dream
any winged dreams
whenever Paco
screeches under a waxing shine.
Oh kindred reader, I didn’t
let you pick a name — I hope
you’re not mad — I’ve decided
Oakland’s got a Paco peacock.
I sleep one block down — I’m never
waken by any peacock shakes
in an Oakland darkness
that habitually hosts
unhoused lives.
I sip a Monday mocha latte
when Paul thuds on my door.
After I swig one terminus gulp,
I unlock the deadbolt
to hear him declare,
“Let’s herd a posse
to snatch that peacock up
and jam it into a pot
for a neighborhood feast.”
My kingly reader, would you consume
a peacock stew
with vengeful spices?
I’ll never partake.
Out on a Paradise
Park jog, Paco
squawks before an unhoused man
who’s trying to run down sleep
on a cracked sidewalk.
I know this man. Ben
was once my neighbor.
I jettison over
where my shadow drapes over him
like a black blanket
on a feral day.