With a morning window open, it’s hard
not to write about birds, how they fly
and make us look boring, how their heads
move like poking machines when they walk.
Now it’s fall and my skin finally feels clean.
Every minute I think about food, about a bear
who eats oatmeal and tacos, sandwiches and
salads, some kind of sellout bear, a warning
to show good bear cubs how not to behave.
Crawling from a distant cave toward the light
of a refrigerator, crawling from a darkness
filled by deep snores and musk into a bowl
of potato salad only stoked the bear’s hunger.
A bear would never shave, but this one does.
Some mornings, it stands above the running sink
hoping for fish to pop out. Alas, they never do,
only more water, so strange smelling and clear.
Matthew Valades has had poems published in Subtropics, New Ohio Review, The Shore, Carolina Quarterly, The Moth, and The Pomegranate London. His book reviews have been published in PN Review and Quarterly West.