Bukowski’s Bluebird
and Psalm 139;
Starbucks
and hardhats,
badges
and faux bouquets;
healing gardens
and prayer circles;
a shiny pink balloon
in an atrium’s skylight;
a young resident
in blue scrubs,
keys jangling
on her hip;
red aviation lights
on a rooftop.
11:59 AM,
two weeks of stubble.
An unchanging sky,
an oblivious world.
Somewhere,
a bluebird singing.
