There is no one without his hour
and the hour for us arrived at dusk
when two sparrows

outside the café pecked crumbs
off the curb, suddenly turning
into birds of great plumage,

both of them singing,
male and female,
unheard of, yet heard

by us at a table
in a Broadway shed
until the dinner hour came to a close,

that hour in the first line
you’ve already forgotten
because I distracted you

with the conversion of the birds
and the magical crumbs
like words you follow

down the page
until you come to the end
and find yourself facing me.

I tell you I’m starting to fall…
but you interrupt, saying Oh
and this is the next to last line

and just the beginning.