A mockingbird compellingly declares
my neighborhood belongs to him. It’s true
that residents assume the homes are theirs
but his assertion rings as valid too:
I don’t see people singing on a roof,
melodically contesting property,
and mortgages seem insufficient proof.
The bird may not have purchased properly
with currency we wingless ones employ,
nor does he pay a market-value rent,
but in his song there’s passion. It’s a joy
to hear. Although he doesn’t spend a cent,
I’ll not dispute his claim: my neighborhood
is his. I hope it stays that way for good.