A singularly ineffective robin tried to build
A nest on the beam beneath the pergola,
Repeatedly dragging twigs and straw around
In a roughly circular arrangement, only
To have the slightest breeze knock all down.
An old man, amalgamated of a broken body,
A borrowed, culture-infested psyche, and
An awareness tied to the rest of the mess
Like a dog to a stake, a pilot to the wheel
Of a burning ship, sat dying and watching
The futility of the robin. Which was less
Likely, that this particular bird was daft,
Disabled, an especially incapable mutant
In some way, like him, or that the species
As a whole had evolved to a fairly precise
Tolerance for ideal size and shape of nest
And nest-supporting structures, a match
That, if not exactly met, must fail, forever
Beyond the abilities of any individual bird
To adjust her nest to fit the less-than-ideal
Location? He couldn't guess. In the event,
The nest never was accomplished, and
The robin, if she laid successful eggs
Anywhere, did so somewhere out of the ken
Of the archaic man and his maundering,
Anachronistic questions. The slightest wind
Would have anyway, likewise, upended him.
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