For a moment the copper-feathered robin

the exact size as my two palms,

with its midnight-storm eye

and a beakful of tattered acorn,

stopped on the concrete sill

of the fourth-floor office window

expecting to find an underdressed princess,

mid-song, looking for help with tidying up,

or the perfect last thing to include

on a nut-based gift basket. Instead,

it found a mid-30’s guy in an oversized shirt

standing in a coffee-dusted break room,

phone in hand, looking blank out the window

as leftover spaghetti heated unevenly

in a radar-spotted microwave.