first girlfriend

The bird was back, scrabbling
at the windowsill long before dawn
was a thought across the horizon.
It rattled the panes and squawked
at being shut out in the cold.
You, dear, are not welcome.
I hold your presence dear—
love your leaps of the tarantella,
from the comfort of a deck chair.
Hang your fluorescent plumage
in the art gallery, look—the hue,
the contours and form. But look,
I’d rather this plush comforter
of solitude, how selfish, how pure.