Grackles cover your fenced feeder,each oiled sunflower a promise:on the drumlin built by graders, maybe:ragweed, goldenrod, lion's teethkeep rooting. Nothing new.
Maybe your neighbours curse the poison by-laws,
dip their Agent Orange into creeksto rub their palms on Astroturf.
Maybe each of us envies one another's infinitypools, wants our Billy bookshelves replaced by teak.
Once more, maybe, way back, the birds dig deep and chorus. Their cast-off shells on the lawn's off-pitch outfield: organic, I bet, and fairly traded,with feeling.
What is the sum of 8 and 9:
It's your turn! Move into the poem. Renovate it. Knock down its walls. Put your spin on it. Make it your own.