"My luck is always bad”, he said
one morning over his skim latte.
“I don’t know what it is about me.
I waited for months to visit Boston and
then spent the weekend sick in bed”
And I said, “Bad luck? Bad luck?
You don’t know bad luck, let me tell you.
Bad luck is the Bachman’s Warbler,
that’s bad luck. Had a memorable song,
a high, sweet trill among Georgia pines.
Died out completely in the 1930s. Or
so they thought. Then nine years later,
birders foundBachmans, a pair of them,
a few miles fromeach other. Heard that
fine “trrree, trrree” song once more. So
they shot them both and called it a day.