My Cousin the Mockingbird

Each morning the Mockingbird

sings and squabbles

hoots, beeps, bops

croons outside my window.

He repeats the same songs

ad infinitum for his own pleasure,

or attract a mate,

to annoy the harpy blue jay,

braying crow

the eternally effeminate

twittering chickadee

or simply to revel in the sound

of his own voice.

 

Sometimes I think my poetry is much the same.