House Wren

To my right, a hate-wagon rolls coal

on always busy Kessler, a block away,

while I sit in the shade with closed eyes.

To my left, a neighbor’s AC rattles,

clanking at first, but then settling,

like my brain, into a more conciliatory hum.

Before she grew old enough to snub me,

my daughter made a one-holed birdhouse,

and painted, in bluejay blue, WELCOME BIRDS

on its steep and elegantly curved

cardinal red roof, and her house still hangs

from a corner of our clean white

cinder block garage.

I wish I could tell her about the wren,

how much she means to me, and how

I hope I have come to mean to her.

How all summer she sits on the wire

outside my open window,

no matter how hot and sticky it is,

and sings while I type,

and how she’s always grabbing bugs

to give to her chattery chicks,

I bet so fluffy and veiny

inside that black hole.

Grant Vecera teaches writing, thinking, and literature at Indiana University Indianapolis and at Butler University.  His poems have been appearing in literary periodicals since the 1990s.  More recently, his work has appeared in Louisiana Literature, The Indianapolis Anthology, Leave Them Something Anthology, Meat for Tea: The Valley Review, Stick Figure Poetry Quarterly, and The Gorko Gazette.