Myron

Myron

When Jerry Lewis died, I told Christine
  My favorite joke of his, was,
In an old film with Dean Martin, he told a girl
“My mother always called me Myron Myron,
  First she’d call ‘Myron,’ and if I didn’t come
  She’d call me again (yelling) MYRON!”

This was September, 2017,
I’d thought her clutch had failed in the autumn chills,
  Grey and rainy New England
Gets the patchwork remnants of
  America’s tropical hurricanes and storms

Until the day out the kitchen door
  There’s Cleo (I’ve wrote of Cleo)
And her nest that bore a little head,
  Black and white as Jerry in old movies,
She feeding him crop milk,
  He pecking at the lip behind her beak for more

A week on, she’d often be gone,
Wherever, gathering more formula for crop milk,
  He growing on the rim of the nest,
His head bent back to remove the sheaths
  On pinfeathers, like a plastic wrap,
Reaching out stiff wings,
  As if to catch a wind had not yet come,

Past the time migrating birds had flown,
  Leaving us only the wintering Jays and Cardinals,
Far too late for a fledgling in the brush,
  (Cleo’s first clutch fledged in June!)  
Yet now our mourning nest was empty, amid
  The rains of another named storm

Beside myself, I flew off on out the driveway,
  Seeking, whispering, then boldly not whispering,
To all the flailing brush and trees;
  Myron, Myron,
    MYRON!