on first washing up
while thinking i was leonard cohen

the collared sparrowhawk that has come
to balance on the draining rack
beats the sink to froth with its banded wings.

my father's eyes gaze out of the bird.

"i think," he says, "you've run the water too cold.
are you really leonard cohen?"

"dad!" i reply, "is that you?"

rain grabs at the window like a clutching hand,
but the sparrowhawk does not speak again.

soapsuds whirl like oneiromancy.
(the whole house smells of lemons.)

when i walk outside to the squalling wind
i don't believe i'll get wet, but i do.

(Atlanta Review 6.2, 2000)

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ted@magicdog.com -- 19 December 2000