A Living A-Living

What does a bird say
when asked
at a party,
“What do you do?”

It cannot say, “I fly,”
for sometimes it does not.

It cannot say, “I eat,”
for sometimes it does not.

It can only say,
“I live.”
And await the inevitable:

“Yes, but what do you do
for a living?”

What does a bird say,
after worms-in-a-blanket
and two thimbles of Manhattan,
of such an abstraction

as working for a living,
when there is only working
at a-living
to be done?

A bird does not serve a living,
and it cannot serve drinks.
Which is why one sees
so few birds
at parties.

 

written on the Bolt Bus from Portland, Oregon, to Vancouver, British Columbia

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