Ruminations In the Parking Lot
Why are the sea gulls shopping here,
if not for "White Stag, No Boundaries" or
"Faded Glory?" Is there some other story?
Coffee, tea, or you, or just practicing beach
and gray-sky calls over concrete, carts
and Handicapped Blue? This turf is for blackbirds
of the piercing cry, insolent strut and beady
stare. Not for you to straddle halogen
in your evening wear of dove-gray, black tie.
Not for you to play harlot in this car-lot
of no swells, no breakers.
What lures you, displaced gracefuls--calls
you from rides on a rogue wind, pushing lace-
topped tides to stock minnow meals
in pellucid sloughs? You've paid your dues,
and dour land birds are the parking lot denizens.
Surely you harbor an unnatural appetite
for hors de'oeuvres that do not swim
or paddle, though you buzz pedestrians
on stony reaches, as when dive-bombing
the deep or cruising the beaches.
For whatever draws you to the superstore,
super birds, I pray you reap Neptune's pardon
as you vie for the rail over the holy grail
of the Wal-Mart sign where no whitefish, black
fish, shrimp or snail, no fiddler crab scuttles
for safety. And, may our God absolve us
our sins of the past--our ever-advancing
tsunamis of concrete, steel, and glass.
Copyright © Nola Perez | Year Posted 2008
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