makes a mad dash across the street,
weaves its way in and around all
those other people singing songs
that have already been written.
Snatches a line or two before
moving on.
Catches sight of its
own reflection in the plate glass
windows, parsing all those pesky
syllables. Then pretends to latch onto
the lovers in the park picking clovers,
seeking the buzz of bees as reverie.
