A crow has been haunting my window sill, to catch a glimpse of me.
Every morning at eleven I hear his claws clatter,
the inquisitive tap as he presses his beak to the glass,
His round eye inquires: Well, is she…?
Once he's satisfied I’m still there, he flies away.
I doubt kissing him would produce any effect,
Other than scratches and a possible gouge or two
For me, and storm clouds in that round crow eye
And a confused racing in that grey crow chest
And maybe a fear more potent than admiration.
In any case, I’m zero princes short of a happy ending:
An admirer who isn’t creepy,
A well-wisher who allows me my space,
And me with something to look forward to, every eleven o’clock.