Don’t Tell Me

it’s iron, the bottle
crouched on its white pedestal,
long beak spout and wide open handle
you could see starry sky through.

Everybody was doing that new stitch,
it had spread far west, oh yes,
said Mrs. ______ at Knit & Purl,
but how many hats can one person wear?

I’d like to be more useful—say
apprentice to a bung fitter, or make
chipped ice, to hit something (not live)
on the head, directly,

I’ve not yet seen the Rock Wren
though I saw a photo of one inserting
pebbles in the airflow pipe of a mine,
therein to lay its eggs.


More Poems by Talvikki Ansel