In Praise Of An Ordinary Man

The way a man pushes
the hair from his face, open-
palmed, a small
thing, endlessly repeated: the hair falls,
he pushes it back again,

unplanned legacy, mechanical round
learned in some forgotten
gesture seen years ago,
his father,
not noticing his son
not noticing him.

This is what I see on television: a hummingbird
afloat in the current of its own making,
wings slowed to a speed the eye can perceive.

Poorly planned model, I think,
beak and body too small to contain
its own hunger. Sucking,
rarely stopping

to cock its head, stare
at the surrounding sky.

This is what I have learned to love,
the small, the overlooked—
the hummingbird sitting still.