After Mark Strand’s “Eating Poetry”

I am devouring blackberries

next to an old rogue barn house

with leaf-crusted gutters 

that are never going to be replaced or cleaned.

There is no hunger like mine.

Next to me is a chained dog

who, almost delicately, stands on two legs.

Often, he jumps up and clamps his jaw

onto a tree branch, where he swings for a few seconds.

He is practicing for the day

when he can become an Olympian.

He hopes that someone will see his trick and

break the metal chain from his metal collar.

Behind me, there is a robin hatchling.

He sits in his nest with his face smooshed

looking like a bald, toothless old man.

He is practicing for the day

when he can sit in a pleather La-Z-Boy and grumble.

He is waiting for someone 

to offer him a blue-collar job.

They think I don’t notice them, but I do.

I wipe the juice off my face

and walk over to present them

with a few fine opportunities.