I’m tired of this shit.
sissy feeds birds the dark bread of napoleon’s horse
and whispers to the lame-legged pigeon
still hopping his way around john f kennedy.
she unzips bags to find chocolates grinning under icelandic pseudonyms,
all smashed and leaking rum and marzipan. she reaches around them
and fetches more thin tin packages of buttered bread.
she tosses the slow-baked crusts and slides
the butter back onto the crumpled foil, whose folds
and shapes still snicker at the thought of still sculptures.
whether pumpernickel or schwarzbrot, she eats it anyway
and shares the bird feed with a welcoming neighbor,
a toddler still giggling his way through life.
she crumbles the crumbs and arranges them just as parades
of albino ants might lie on a bed of blue forest grass,
she watches as her friendly goliath hobbles and eats his ants.
the flight attendant humors this distraction,
sharing carrot cake with the nervous bird,
whose lame leg magnetically recognizes his gifts.
she watched his brothers circle around
and she shooed them away, picking her favorite
and giving the standby buffet-crashers their own nasty names.
the time changed and suitcases rolled away
while a lame pigeon hobbled from goodbyes to his home
tucked deep in the maze of jfk.