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When Big Joan Sets Up

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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—
Source: Poetry (July/August 2009)

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This poem originally appeared in the July/August 2009 issue of Poetry magazine

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When Big Joan Sets Up

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