One year I lived alone, so I’d take leisurely walks
around the block. Sometimes a white stray dog
would come around and sniff at my shoes.
 
Sometimes a small brown bird would swoop
from a tree to land in front of me, in the grass
just off the cracked sidewalk, and peck a few times
 
at the earth before looking up at me, and staring
as I walked by. We began to look for each other
in the afternoon. We began to walk together,
 
the small brown bird flapping its wings to catch up
as I kept my pace. My daughter told me over
the phone ‘the birds all work for the bourgeoisie!”
 
This was a meme that has been going around.
So one day I asked the bird “do you work
for the bourgeoisie?,” and the bird said “I’m here
 
for you. I’m here for you.” That’s when I knew
I was lonely. The bird followed me home, flapping
and hopping. “I’m here for you! I’m here for you!”
 
it said. I went inside and got into bed, my head
under the sheets. I could hear the bird outside
my window: “I’m here for you! I’m here for you!”
 
Soon I fell asleep. In the morning, the bird was on
the bedpost at the foot of my bed.  “I’m here for you!
I’m here for you!” it said in its small, high voice. I threw
 
my sheets over the bird, and it chirped and flapped
and hopped under them, saying “I’m here for you!
I’m here for you!” I got under the sheets with the bird,
 
and we hopped and flapped, in the diffuse, under-the-sheets
morning light, saying to each other “I’m here for you!
I’m here for you! I’m here for you!” The south-facing window
 
let the sun in all day, and the sheets warmed up
in my bedroom, and we hopped and flapped, hopped
and flapped. I began to sweat and the small brown bird
 
began to tire. Before we knew it, it was evening. We lay down
under the sheets in the slanting light, and slept together.
 
In the morning I rolled off his crushed little body. The white dog
had come to live at my house. I wasn’t lonely anymore.