Alive

Somewhere a hadeda is alive because it was nurtured and nourished,
from falling over, next door, on the bowling green.

It stayed and ate cat-food, announced hunger regularly at the front door,
even walking in, impatient for
that which gives life.

I am alive, too, and also impatient for
so much.

I have to say it with this body,
words are wind.

So when I dip into the
electric river, which is where I
live, bear with me.

Like a hadeda,
my voice can be unaccomplished,
so far as sophistication can be made to swell.

It's not the words, nor the larynx, pharynx or
any itemized spelling or sense of silly
speciality.

When you take off the socks and shoes of
pretence and walk,  just alive,
maybe humming something you remember,
you could know how
nothing is better than
now.