Corona Owl? No Cigar

I should start by saying

I hope it's not clinical insanity

or cabin fever or stir fry or

whatever other nuttiness is emerging

in these cooped up days,

as I'd been hearing Ollie or Olivia

a month or two before quarantines and

masks and six-foot considerations

were all the rage.

(I'm gonna call her/him it, so's to

dispense with potential

him/her tedium—and I WILL NOT

surrender to third-person fashion

also all the rage

these days.)

In the spirit of strict adherence

to factuality, I hereby disclose

only that to which I can objectively attest

is voice.

Whooo...whoo...cooo coo--

yes, might it well be the voice

of a mourning dove? Yet,

as you know, I prefer

owl—in fact

baby owl.

Only when I'm on the can

so to speak

does it call

to me, who else?

Workmen were in the attic

back then, sawing, banging,

and the like—dunno why,

I only rent, share building with

beauty shoppe (are the extra "p" and the "e"

passé or

de rigueur?

Whooo/cooo cares?

Unless it’s it, trapped

like Fortunato, sans revenge motive—

oh lort,

I walked ‘round the one-story

building this morning

saw no opening near the roof

for anything larger than a CV-19

microbe

to wriggle in or out of.

I’d love to believe some brushy,

leafy nest

in the neighboring pecan tree

houses my whooo-er or

cooo-er,

meanwhile I wrestle

with plausibility

the weakening

of the whooos or cooos

is trapped

in my

stir-crazed

imagination.

                                                                                                                       m.d. paust