Glosa on Lines from Peter Everwine

In the vacant lot, a common thrush
picks his way through a maze of rubble,
searching for something to fill himself
before he sings.

Poet, you’re in the ground
and I’m wearing your vest
for luck, solace, magic . . .
for I don’t know what. So far
it’s working for warmth.
I can say that much
on this cold day at my desk,
all grey out the window, and inside
a dim winter hush.
In the vacant lot, a common thrush

pulls my gaze past the dusty pane
to where he flits and hops, intent.
He’s lively and precise.
How can he be so nimble
while I sit here dim as my room,
this dull morning’s double?
And just like that, here comes
envy—of a bird! A common bird
that, unconcerned with my muddle,
picks his way through a maze of rubble

(an odd place for a thrush, it seems
to me, though you’re the one who put
or found him there in…

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