This poem is for the rabbit,
not the four starlings, perched
on the bare, electric wire
above it.

One starling flies down toward
the rabbit, and then veers
across the neighbor’s lawn
to land on the round, metal head

that feeds electricity into her house.
The starling enters a hole,
left of the metal, entrance feed.
I remind myself to tell her

to have her son come over
and get my ladder, a can
of spray foam that expands,
hardens orange, and will fill that hole.

This poem is for the rabbit,
as motionless as a white painted,
concrete lawn ornament,
perhaps bought by a flea market

bargain hunter to put in a flowerbed.
Eight starlings have lined up
above the rabbit. They are not
destined to be my  poem.

The rabbit sits motionless, profiled
by the rising sun, casting its shadow.
I spy the white garbage truck,
approaching, brakes squeaking,

reminding me that I have not
taken out the trash. I go inside
my house and come out,
tying the black, tie flap bag.

I hand it to the garbage collector.
He points toward the rabbit,
unafraid, on the lawn, and says,
“You have a nice rabbit.”

“It is a poem.” I say.
The man looks at me, smiles,
and says,
“It’s a great morning for a poem.”

He tosses my bag of trash
onto the truck,
now become his white steed,
and rides off into the sunrise.