Dave Bonta recalls an afternoon when a toothache left him stranded on the couch, eyes squeezed shut and mouth open. He jokes that he might have looked like someone in ecstasy. Outside, the June weather is lovely, the windows are open, and he holds on to the song of a brown thrasher as if it were a lifeline.
The middle of the poem turns to the bird itself. The thrasher repeats each improvised line, and its song is almost endlessly varied. From this the speaker draws a thought: pain, like the world, can't be copied, but art lets us step beyond ourselves and escape. The birdsong becomes a kind of art that carries him through the pain.
The ending is quieter and wryly funny. After his wisdom teeth are pulled, he has to chew carefully, and every bite comes with "a mouthful of thought." The mood is light, observant, and reflective, finding something close to wisdom in small discomforts.