The Truth About Tigers

Voices clatter like dominoes in descent,
seeking casual dominance over one another
and Jeff Tweedy, singing about his mother
and dangerous dreams along the southern border.
Stainless steel coffee machines beyond my ability
to identify fold their whooshes and chuffs into the fray.

Despite the decidedly unnatural sounds
(unless you entertain the idea that these sounds,
conceived by humans or the contraptions they’ve crafted,
could indeed be deemed natural),
a mockingbird has breezed through the open door,
finding solace atop a high bronze light fixture.

He appears not merely composed but captivated,
tilting his small gray head from side to side
as though absorbing the peculiar spectacle of humans
with their odd devices, and maybe
wondering about an invitation to join the communal scene.

Catching his gaze, I offer a silent welcome
should he choose to pull up a chair,
yet he dismisses my unspoken bid
with a silent no thanks of his own,
flitter-flying instead to another light
above a different table,

this one a gathering of youthful blondes
rather than a solitary middle-aged man,
murmuring along with Wilco songs
and penning verses on strange birds
amid the hubbub of a crowded café.
Hard to fault his preference.