THE WATTLE BIRD

Until this morning

I’ve been woken up

by a red wattle bird

flinging himself

at the glass

of my half-open window

calling throatily

with raucous cheek

as he prances the wood

of my balcony rail

I’m old enough

to be flattered

and take no courting attention

for granted

this grey morning

I fumble awake

groggily trailing

cobwebs of a dream

about my long dead

still adored Siamese

clutching her to my frantic

dream self

as if she were, miracle,

still alive

this dry morning

of a slippery rainless winter

I sip my strong coffee

and listlessly watch

the window

longing for the joyous noise

of my new, if just

rattling through,

boyfriend.