In the tree that leans out
over the street
a small, gray and white
woodpecker you named Jeff
taps quietly on the trunk
drilling holes to suck sap
beneath bark
a whiney, weepy chirp
is all you hear
You notice
how the paper bound books
on top of your to read piles
have curled covers
exposing pages
they were designed to protect
Inside your house
covers relax flat, again
you decide
it has something to do
with the dry air of
our print on demand world
and whine about Amazon
under your breath
10-22-20
My husband's poetry 
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