At least they choir

Fickle, flaky, Freudian in

the way of a nasal winter –


hiding on a park-bench

pidgeon’d hole o’ Gram


pa’s forgotten stash.

Dive, dive, dive, oh wing-ed


wonder, wallowing on the shell-

crusted beach, almost in


noon-sleep, snoring through

whiskers thick with doubt.


One can only shiver

against gulls, gobbling


a breakfast, marooned and

still. Shout at their noisy


music, with sea-shanty poker-

faces. They may be raucous,


but at least they choir.

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