Nobody. Nobody. Nobody,
a woman calls loudly, her voice
drifting in through my open window
from somewhere between the privet
and the agapanthus. I think it strange,
but a word I can relate to, a feeling
growing inside me, until I hear a little
snuffle, a jingle of dog tags, then it hits me—
she’s actually saying “No, Buddy!”
I look out at the Japanese plum tree
its branches thick with starlings feasting on bitter
fruit, while I lie here, books and papers
scattered around me. My lover stormed out
last night, and instead of the work I meant to do
I eat the argument over and over, picking
the small words apart, finding soft flesh to bite into.
Meanwhile, the fat crows
announce their arrival with loud screeches,
an alarm the starlings heed, flying off
in one swift movement, and so inspired,
I haul myself from the bed, stumble upstairs,
put the kettle on. Call out to my stubborn lonely
self, like the woman to the dog,
No, Buddy!