Crooked Nest

Fluttering coyly about his locker,
she teases and jabs like a tiny boxer.
His gaze gropes her slender, long-legged frame,
the auburn plumage, the ivory smile.

Sadly, she has tucked her intellect away:
cashmere locked in a closet in autumn.
Her spirit and wit are lost on this tower,
a lording king with the mind of a pawn.

She tells her friends she is lucky to have him,
loves his crew, his tattoo, his jump-shot arms.
But she has folded her wings to fit his reach —
nearly flightless now in his varsity glow.

If only she paused at the perches just passed,
almost hidden, rough-hewn, and humble —
where sweeter fruits would be offered as gifts
to watch her alight and peer in their homes.