When Big Joan Sets Up

Imagine having enough left
to break a bottle over it.
Listen how pretty, listen

for glass in nothing nearby
shattering, just morning birds
that do not wake whoever

is not sleeping. Come here
Little Birdie, come here.
No matter how great the gains

so many complaints hang—
The grass full of worms,
and still all that squawking,

like a couple talking and talking
about never talking. The chatter
of hunger, that gaudy red—