For the Sparrows in the Newark Liberty International Airport
There’s plenty of glass—
windows and weather,
daylight, night,
and seasons to see—
outside, the runways—
planes fly off into the stormy
or sunny sky, land with rolling thuds
all day, all night.
How long can a bird survive in a terminal?
They fly high, perch on enormous beams.
I wonder what they eat—
wonder if they’re okay with it,
being inside, watching the real world through windows
like a strange movie.
How much I must project
of my life on you, small brown bird.
That’s not a glove someone dropped
hurrying to make a connection.
It’s a dead bird beneath
the Departures board.