How like a bird,

friends say, how sweet.

  How sour of them

  to forget me—who lives 

 

with all those syrupy

chirrups, saccharine

  arpeggios—tries

  to live, that is. I’m 

 

a walking baffle, noise-

cancelled jellyfish. Any

  frog-peep sends me 

  finger-eared into closets.

 

At some late hour,

the flute case shuts,

  and there’s

  piccolo practice.