The Starlings came to Springfield
every year when it got warm
and stayed through Summer,
roosting in the trees
by the tens of thousands,
screeching from before sunrise
till dusk.
Robin and I didn't care.
They invented a kind of cashew chicken
in that town
where the chunks are deepfried,
and served in a bucket,
under oyster sauce and
nuts.
It's nasty wicked delicious stuff,
and probably 30 different joints
sold it for around five bucks
with a little rice.
We did not care
about the starlings,
ate whatever the Chinese fed us
as often as possible,
and had a very very good time.
I didn't know then
why it couldn't last,
but somewhere down the line
about seven years,
after graduating,
getting a good job,
buying a motorcycle
and backing off the dope and drinking,
there was an it
that kicked in,
and away I went,
chasing something shiny down the street,
leaving Robin to clean up the mess,
and believing
what I did
really really was
the right thing
to do.
She hung with me
through it all,
thinking how maybe
the man she loved
might one day return.
I never did,
and only
later,
when the pain threw me out of bed
in the middle of the night,
finally learned to hear
what the Starlings
were trying to say
all along.
It was 30 years
too late.
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