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.