Walk of the Birds
All these two-dimensional yellow breasted sparrows
centered carefully in a cookie cut sidewalk block.
Five whole birds, flat chirpless worlds.
Oh Columbia, what boot is so bitter?
What hunter so callous? So inhuman in their swift stomp?
What angry, trickle-down, color-blind sonovabitch
tenderized ten summer wings at the dusk of their Missouri home?
And now that trees spread their autumn morning ashes,
a eulogy to dawn songs and figure eight fly-alongs,
dreaded bohemians in their tie-dye and burkenstocks,
vegan mountain bikers, blasphemers,
spread you thinner into your paved graves.
You feathered, trusting, pedestrian centerpieces,
I look down and wonder whose soles are more worn.
-Mike
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