Co-Pilot
She married an apron. A bus driver.
He called himself such, but everyone gazed
his way at the airport, on and off the plane.
A zookeeper she was. A hummingbird as well.
What iridescent wings, the dissonance beating
too quickly to be seen, only a whisper of distant
thunder. A decoupaged papier-mâché doll. Strictly
speaking in a sunburst bowl. The fallacies of friends
who loved the carefree idea of marrying the air.
In the thicket a small bird sings freedom, secures
a nest, then suddenly she’s dashing for her apron,
as if she couldn’t refill the feeder herself.
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Richard L. Matta was raised in New York’s rustic Hudson Valley, and now lives in San Diego, California. He’s active in several local poetry groups and recently served as guests editor for a short-form poetry journal. Some of his work is in The Dewdrop, New Verse News, San Pedro River Review, and Healing Muse.
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Stone Poetry Quarterly 